Crepuscular Incunabula
by ccgaylord
Summary: Supposedly, orcs were once elves who were tortured by Morgoth until they changed their shape. That was in the first age. Can it happen again? This is a crossover between the orc genre and elf zombie/vampire. I had to change the rating to T because the body count started getting too high.
1. Elrond's Council

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to **_**The Lord of the Rings**_**, **_**The Hobbit**_**, **_**The Silmarillion**_**, or Hugo Weaving. **

**Note: This first chapter is a bit on the boring side, but it's also one of the shortest. ****A war to exterminate orcs is extra-canonical, but certainly makes sense in context, so I hope I do not diverge too much from the original story in putting it in. **All of Book I takes place a year or so after the end of _The Hobbit_. Books II and III take place directly before and during _The Lord of the Rings_.

* * *

**BOOK I: A Medical Condition**

* * *

**Incunabulum 1: A Problem and a Solution Discussed in One of Elrond's Councils**

It was officially a secret council and so no one was supposed to admit he knew it was going on. Some took advantage of this policy to pretend that they didn't know about it and not show up at all, as Rivendell was rather out of the way. Elrond had councils fairly often and the elves who lived farther afield were getting rather tired of them.

Elrond and one of his sons were making their way towards the council chamber down the longest of the hallways leading to it, so as to have plenty of time for conversation before reaching the door.

"I want your voice in the council, Father," said Elrohir. "I need your support."

"What support I have I will readily give," replied his father, "but first you must convince me of the practicability of this 'final solution' of yours."

"What are your doubts?"

"In the first place, you will find little support from the other elves."

"Do you sense active hostility?"

"No; but indifference. Mirkwood sent only two elves. Lorien sent…" He paused a moment and calculated. "Three, I think. They are the ones you are most likely to convince—Lothlorien, especially, for they lie in the very shadow of the mountains. The Mirkwood elves have just fought a great battle with the orcs and that may either make them willing to fight or just the opposite… one never can tell with Wood-elves."

"They are not the only elves in Middle Earth; why do you say that?"

"The others are too scattered—or too far from the danger. Little help may be expected from the Grey Havens. They will tell you that the orcs are no concern of theirs."

"They think they're safe for the moment, that's all. They'll never see trouble until it's on their own doorstep—in that way they are all alike. Your opinion would carry weight with them. You could convince them."

"I might, and I might not. I do not yet know myself whether your plan is right."

"But you will not tell me why you doubt. I can see no fault in it."

"You cannot see what this war would mean to our kind and to all of Middle Earth. The others are right to hold back."

"They see the orcs as only a nuisance, that is all. I would have thought that you would understand. Sometimes I think you have forgotten what Mother went through."

"Memories," said Elrond, raising his voice, "cannot be washed away even with oceans of orc blood. You can do no good to anyone now by killing orcs. You and your brother think of nothing but your own pain."

"Forgive me, Father," said Elrohir. "But you are wrong when you say that we would be helping no one. Is it not a noble purpose to rid ourselves of these pestilential beings? They have killed many of us and may kill many more." He went on in a lower tone. "Would it not be right to prevent such a horror as my mother's captivity from occurring to another?"

"If I thought you could succeed in such a purpose I would use all the means in my power to further your cause," said Elrond.

"But why do you think we will not succeed?"

Elrond did not reply. They had reached the door.

The room they entered was round and had so many windows that the council could only be secret in an official capacity. The turn-out was pitiably small. There were twelve elves in all, including the Rivendell quota which consisted of Elrond, his two sons, one of his counsellors, and his brunette lieutenant, Lindir, who acted as secretary.

Elrond greeted each with the honeyed word customary to the opening of councils. Scolding could come later.

"Elves of Lothlorien—Elludol, Haldir, Findor—I bid you welcome. I hope my daughter fares well among you."

Having been assured that she did, he addressed the second group.

"Greetings, Ellibor and Galdor of the Grey Havens. Long have I meant to make Cindar a visit. I hope soon to find the time."

The two representatives bowed.

"Greetings, Hrothmar of the Wood-elves. You have journeyed far to grace our council. But where is Horthir, son of Hemir? He ought to be here to represent the elves at arms of Mirkwood."

"My brother was unable to come, my lord," replied Hrothmar. "Halrodil, my younger brother, is here in his stead."

"Welcome to Rivendell," said Elrond. "And now we are all assembled save for the lady of Lorien without whom no elf council can properly begin."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," said Elludol. "She couldn't be here. She said she would connect via conference call."

"Thank you for telling me," said Elrond. "I was wondering what that ringing in my head was."

There was a moment's pause.

"Now," he said, "we can start. Elrohir, you have the chair."

"I've called this council to discuss the problem of the orcs," said Elrohir. "Now I know we all are tired sick of fighting," he added quickly as he saw some long looks exchanged, "but the Battle of the Five Armies wiped out most of the enemy's number and the rest are scattered. This is the time to strike a blow and wipe out whatever is left of their foul breed."

"Long have we hunted the orcs," said Elladan, picking up where his brother left off. "You know how my brother and I can never forget our mother's torment in the dens of the goblins. Never have we faltered in our tireless effort to eradicate the foul race."

"We have called this council," said Elrohir, "to enlist the support of all elves in this righteous cause. Our kind has suffered countless ills at their foul hands. If we were to completely destroy them, we would be free from all danger from them forever. And, I need hardly add, Middle Earth would be a much better place."

The brothers fell silent, looking hopefully from face to face. For a short while everyone seemed to be thinking hard. Elludol spoke first.

"You wish to declare total war on the orc hordes?"

Elludol was the eldest of the Lothlorien group. Like his companions he was blonde and wore rather uninspiring woodland dress.

"That is the decision before us," said Elrohir. "We must have the support of all the elves."

"Would it not be wasted effort?" asked Galdor. "Even should we kill every orc, more would come. They spring from holes in the earth and from pits of slime."

"That is a common misconception that has been disproven by recent scientific evidence," said Elrohir. "It is entirely possible to extinguish the orcish race. And once we have, we might turn our attention to other creatures, such as wargs or cave trolls, and go on from there."

"The orcs are not a threat at present," said Elrond.

Elrohir shot him an angry glance.

"It's not my fault," said Elrond. "Lady Galadriel said it."

"The orcs may not be a threat at present," said Elrohir, "but they will be when they have regained their strength once more. That is why the time to fight them is now."

"Where is the need for haste?" asked Erestor, Elrond's counsellor. "Long have we endured the orcs. What is another thousand years?"

"Another thousand years is another thousand lives lost, perhaps," said Elrohir.

"But I do not feel, like you, that the time is right," said Elludol. "We ourselves are not strong, and the Wood-elves were weakened at the Battle of the Five Armies."

"We are stronger than the orcs."

"Elludol speaks sense," said Elrond. "This undertaking is greater than you think. That from me, by the way."

"It may be so, Father," said Elrohir, looking rather put out. "But it is a necessary undertaking and we cannot shrink from it."

"You and your brother," said Ellibor, "have great cause to hate the orcs. This seems to be a quest for the house of Elrond and not for all the elves of Middle Earth. As loathsome as the orc is, we have no personal quarrel with their kind."

"Hrothmar," said Elrohir. "Your father was killed by orcs. What have you to say?"

Hrothmar hesitated. "An orc is only an orc," he began.

"That is not true," broke in Halrodil, starting up. "He fears the orcs. Their foul forms haunt his dreams so that the night is a terror to him. He scarcely sleeps anymore. In battle with them he is as brave as any, but who can battle shadows in the mind?"

"Destroying the orcs would not destroy your dreams," said Elrond sternly.

"Hrothmar is an elven smith," said Elladan. "He knows much of war. Let us hear what he has to say."

"Well…" said Hrothmar. He had not been following the talk very closely and spoke at random, trying to choose words that would not sound too silly. "We have always been at war with the orcs. Peace between us and them is impossible, so it is superfluous to declare war against them. We kill them whenever we can, and so do the men and the dwarves. This sort of enterprise would be merely an extension of our usual activities."

The others nodded, wondering why they had not thought of the obvious fact sooner. Encouraged, Hrothmar continued.

"On the other hand, a war of complete annihilation would involve a great force and much time, for we would have to follow the orcs into their mountain fastnesses and there they would have the advantage of us."

"Your wisdom is as keen as your well-tempered blades," said Elrond approvingly.

"He is right on one score," said Findor. "We cannot follow them into the mountains."

"The dwarves have many holdings in the mountains," said Elludol. "We would have to have their permission before we could invade their ancient precincts."

"We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the Dark Days," observed Haldir.

"Such an endeavour would require a stronger force than ours," insisted Elludol. "We would need the help of men."

"The rangers of the North," said Elladan, "would undoubtedly come to our aid. Their assistance would be invaluable, for they know the ways of the orcs."

"My lady Galadriel asks if that is the reason for the two rangers waiting in the court below," said Elrond.

"I would have had them to the council if it had not been stipulated that it be an elf-only assembly," said Elladan. "They are friends of mine and to be trusted."

"There are few rangers left," said Ellibor.

"The forces of Gondor and Rohan are great and might be prevailed on to aid us," said Elrohir. "They would benefit from a total destruction of the orcs as well as we."

"Men are weak," said Galdor, "and their help in this matter cannot be depended on. If we do this thing, we must be prepared to do it alone."

"But must we do it?" said Elludol. "That seems to be the question of this council."

"It is indeed the question before us," said Elrohir. "All the other difficulties may be overcome once we have decided."

Elrond closed his eyes as if in resignation.

"My lady Galadriel," he said, "directs me to say that she has just looked into her mirror and is of the opinion that this task must be undertaken."

The opinion of Lady Galadriel carried much weight. The elves looked thoughtful for some few minutes after this speech, but in the end there was only one thing to be said.

"Council adjourned," said Elrohir.


	2. Arrangements

**Incunabulum 2: Arrangements**

The elves left the council chamber with relief. Usually Elrond's councils lasted much longer than that one had—due to there being almost invariably someone present who needed to be filled in on a lot of historical background. Thankfully there had been no such person in this instance, although Hrothmar, as he left the room, wondered about Elladan's allusion to the torture of Elrond's wife in the orc dungeons. He had rather wished when the subject had come up that Lord Elrond would tell them the whole story, but he hadn't thought it polite to ask about it.

Hrothmar was a black-haired elf, a sort characterised by dry and saturnine tempers and which tended to be as atypical as the proverbial black sheep. He expressed his chief emotions through his eyebrows, which were heavy and black with stray hairs sticking up at odd angles like spikes on a wall. The only features that relieved the general dishonesty of his face were his eyes, which were pale grey and singularly open and frank.

The elves descended the stairs in company, the two sons of Elrond discussing the proposed war with whoever was interested. There was much to be planned for such a great venture. Hrothmar and Halrodil did not care for practical planning and hurried on ahead into the court below. There they found, standing by a tree and handling some weapons left there, the two rangers Galadriel had mentioned.

"Here, those are ours," said Halrodil, who didn't like strangers—particularly not strangers touching his weapons.

"Nice blade, man," said the ranger. "Is it elven make?"

"Yes, it is," said Hrothmar, taking it from him without ceremony. "I made it myself."

"No, seriously?"

"Do you know who's in charge here?" asked the other ranger. "I thought we were supposed to be hunting orcs, but we don't seem to be doing anything."

"Er, you'll have to talk to Elrohir about that,' said Hrothmar. "He's over there, I think."

Findor strode up and picked up a sword from the ground. He held it at arm's length and dropped a hair crosswise on the blade.

"The blades of the Wood-elves are not so keen as those of Lorien," he remarked, thrusting it back into the sheath and handing it to Halrodil, to whom it belonged.

"There's nothing wrong with it," said Hrothmar. "It glows blue when orcs are nearby just like any elvish model."

"Odd shape," said Findor. "You must have learned metalwork from the dwarves."

"Yes, all right, I studied from dwarvish textbooks, but I spent four years in the Lothlorien school."

"One doesn't learn in four years what it took a thousand years for our kind to learn in the lands to the west," said Findor, with a scornful curve to his hollow cheeks.

Hrothmar stared after him as he strode away. "They're such snobs," he said. The rangers looked surprised but agreed.

Hrothmar and Halrodil collected their weapons from the ground. Even with the orcs defeated for a time, travel was dangerous across much of Middle Earth and it was customary to carry multiple weapons—in case you happened to lose some. Halrodil had carried an elven bow ever since his hair was long enough to string one, besides several knives of various lengths and his sword. Hrothmar had never learned to use a bow—he preferred steel. Besides his sword and a knife or two, he also carried his favourite forge hammer. It felt more familiar in his grasp than his sword and he reckoned up quite a few fallen orcs to its iron head.

Plans for the coming war continued through dinner, but only among the older elves. The younger members of the various parties limited their remarks for the most part to placing bets on who would kill the most orcs. When they grew too much of a distraction Lord Elrond sent them away from the table and they wandered off to sing or tell stories or whatever it was elves who didn't smoke did after dinner.

Hrothmar and Halrodil went down to lade their horses. Having a far distance to travel and the mountains to get over, they had decided to leave as soon as possible. Elrohir approached while their backs were turned and placed his hand on Hrothmar's shoulder, making him jump.

"Are you departing so soon?" he asked.

"We would not overtax the hospitality of Rivendell."

"I am glad that you were chosen to come, Hrothmar, son of Hemir," said Elrohir gravely. "You have stronger reasons than many to hate the orcs. We needed your support in the council; indeed, if it had not been for the lady Galadriel's vote, our plan may have been shelved for another age." He sighed. "I have worked so long to see this day come."

Hrothmar smiled politely. He had only been sent to the council because some of his practical pranks had made him more of a nuisance than usual at home and Thranduil the elvenking had thought Elrond's council a good excuse to get rid of him for several weeks.

"Oh, by the way," said Elrohir, pulling himself from unpleasant reflections, possibly of his mother's torment, "Findor of Lothlorien will accompany you and your brother back to Mirkwood."

Like an invoked spectre, Findor materialised at Elrohir's left elbow and gazed with his habitual glassy coldness at Hrothmar and Halrodil.

"Why?" asked Hrothmar, cocking an eyebrow.

"It's part of the plan. We're placing liaison officers with each army—just to keep everyone connected. You don't mind, do you?"

Hrothmar shook his head unconcernedly. "I hope he doesn't mind travelling at night."

"Why would we travel at night?" asked Findor.

"We navigate by the stars," said Halrodil.

"We'll be starting as soon as you're ready," said Hrothmar.

"As you wish, but we will take a slight detour south just east of the mountains to connect with a group Lord Celeborn is sending to join us."

Findor vanished in quest of his horse while Elrohir made the customary farewells and returned to the rest of the company.

"Well, that's annoying," said Hrothmar, when Elrohil was out of earshot.

"That will slow us down considerably," said Halrodil.

"Not to mention they'll be snooting at us the whole way back to Mirkwood. I felt like telling him to go to Mordor."

Most elves did not swear by dark things, but the elven smiths tended to pick up the habit.

They mounted and waited until Findor appeared on his white horse. He said nothing to them and the three left the Last Homely House and started out down the mountain track in silence.

It was clear from the start that Findor intended to lead the party. He made no objection to night travelling on the first stage of the journey because their road lay through the Misty Mountains and it was best to get through those as quickly as possible. But he paid no attention to the coordinates passed up to him from Hrothmar and Halrodil and rode along shedding a ghostly radiance around his horse's feet (being a high elf he was able to do this) without once turning his eyes from gazing straight ahead.

They travelled both night and day, but rested during daylight hours. Though there were not many orcs left, the mountains were where they were most likely to meet any and there was more chance of an attack during the night.

When the sun rose before them on the sixth morning they were on the last slopes of the mountains. They stopped in the forest at the foot to rest their horses and eat some lembas bread, and from this point on began a running argument between Findor and the two Wood-elves on travelling hours. Hrothmar and Halrodil preferred the darkness and the stars, while Findor said it was silly to waste the daylight. It was two against one, but Halrodil's was not a forceful personality and Findor's personality was forceful enough for two. Besides, he always ended by saying that Hrothmar was afraid of orcs and that concluded the argument as far as Hrothmar was concerned, for he was too proud to debate the subject. Thus affairs continued as they journeyed south to meet up with the Lothlorien elves.

These they met at the appointed rendezvous near the River Gladden on the eighth day—a party of seven, as lean of limb, as fair of hair, and as high of aristocratic brow as Findor himself. One of the elves, who carried a harp on his back next to his bow, introduced himself as Elvisir, son of Halloin, gave Hrothmar a dig in the ribs, and hoped they would be friends.

The whole party turned eastwards then to cross the River Anduin and enter Mirkwood. They reached the river as the sun sank behind the mountains in the west and made their encampment in a small copse on the bank. Most of the elves ate a hasty supper and then rolled themselves in their cloaks and went to sleep, but Hrothmar remained hunched by the dying fire with his sword across his knees.

"I'll take the first watch," said Findor, striding past him in the dark. "Make a noise if your blade starts glowing."

Hrothmar remained as immovable as the surrounding stones. For some time silence fell around the encampment. Then there was a scarcely perceptible stir at Hrothmar's elbow and Elvisir crouched by the fire beside him.

"Cold tonight, isn't it?" he said. When he got no reply, he went on in a conversational tone. "Findor says you're afraid of orcs."

"I have orcphobia," said Hrothmar. "It's a medical condition."

"Oh," said Elvisir. "Is it serious?"

"Many people simply live with it," said Hrothmar with a shrug. "It keeps me from sleeping at night. I have nightmares."

"Sounds nasty. Is there some sort of medication for it?"

"Nothing that works. I've tried them all."

Elvisir groped in his pocket and took out a carved stone of some sort strung on a chain.

"Do you have one of these?"

"What is it?" asked Hrothmar.

"It's an amulet—a charm, sort of. It's to ward off evil spirits. Maybe it will help keep off the nightmares."

He handed it to Hrothmar, who took it clumsily.

"You're just giving it to me? I mean, it's not valuable, is it?"

"Bosh. I've got lots. I collect them. You know, there's a movie called Orcphobia. Have you seen it?"

"No, is it good?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen it either—my friend told me about it. It's rated R for black speech."

"Sounds cool," said Hrothmar.

They both fell silent until Elvisir, taking out his harp, began to croon quietly a song about Luthien Tinuviel—some elven girl, apparently. Elvisir had a good voice—even for an elf—but Hrothmar found the song somewhat sappy. He'd had a girlfriend once, but she had dumped him for a Rohirrim and he had not bothered much with elven maidens since.

"Do you know any songs about stars?" he asked.

Elvisir stopped and began again.

"_The stars in your eyes are twinkling…_"

Hrothmar hunched his shoulders in resignation. Elvisir eventually sang himself to sleep, but the two immobile watchers—one by the fire and the other in the shadows of the trees—remained still and pensive until the sky turned pale in the east.


	3. Back in Mirkwood

**Incunabulum 3: Back in Mirkwood**

Hrothmar's return with news of pending war and seven Lorien elves caused something of a stir in the elvenking's palace. His elder brother Horthir, captain of the elvenking's guard, met the party as they entered the palace gates.

"It seems you made good time," he said to Hrothmar. "Did you meet any orcs?"

"No."

"That's a good sign. Few, I feel, reached the mountains after the battle."

"Let us hope," said Hrothmar. "And by the way, I hope nobody's meddled with my forge since I left."

"No, no, it's quite all right; it's been locked. Here's the key back. How did the council go?"

People often had trouble believing Hrothmar and Halrodil (who was nearly blond) were brothers until they met Horthir, whose brown hair managed to strike a happy compromise between his brothers' complexions. He and Hrothmar parted from the company, leaving the Lothlorien elves to face the elvenking and explain their errand.

"I hope Thranduil doesn't blame _me _for bringing them along," said Hrothmar. "It was no doing of mine."

"It was an unnecessary arrangement of Elrohir's," said Horthir. "I doubt not it will cause much trouble. The elves of Lothlorien may be our kin, but they do not understand our ways."

He glanced at Hrothmar.

"You look terrible," he said. "Have you gotten much sleep?"

"Not a lot."

"You haven't slept at all, have you?"

Hrothmar did not answer and Horthir continued with averted eyes.

"I've set up an appointment for you with Emeril, by the way—while you were gone."

"Why? I told you, I don't need that. I'll be fine."

"You're getting worse—I can tell. You can't go on like this forever."

They had reached the door of Hrothmar's forge.

"She can't hurt you, you know," said Horthir. "It's for tomorrow at two thirty. If you don't go, I'll come and make you."

Hrothmar unlocked the door of his smithy in sulky silence.

"Well, see you later," said Horthir. "See you tomorrow at two twenty, actually."

He departed. Hrothmar went into the low hut, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. Everything was just as he had left it. He always felt most at home in his forge—in fact, it was the only place he ever felt at home in. He liked its gloom and heat and the general sense of usefulness about the place.

There were several chunks of various metals piled neatly on the forge beside the ashes of his last fire. They had been delivered during his absence and Horthir had left them there. Horthir was a good brother, he reflected. Perhaps he would go to see Emeril if it would make him happy.

Hrothmar took his hammer from his belt and laid it on his anvil, then threw himself down on the bed in the corner and lay on his back for a time, staring up at the smoke-blackened ceiling. He might have dozed off for a minute or two—he wasn't sure—but he was aroused shortly by a tap at the open door and the entrance of Elvisir.

"Hello, hope I'm not bothering you," he said, coming in with a sheaf of loose sheet music under his arm. "Halrodil said you'd probably be here, so I thought I'd come down."

He looked admiringly round the small apartment.

"Did you make all these things?"

"Yes," said Hrothmar, and then added modestly, "Took a while, of course."

He and Elvisir had grown to be good friends during the journey back to Mirkwood, and therefore he did not treat him as he did the usual visitors to his forge—by throwing odd bits of metal or firewood at them until they decided to end the visit.

"This is a nice little place," said Elvisir, sitting down on the forge. "They've put the lot of us Lorien elves up in guest chambers—decent rooms, actually, but not much character. This place is really nice. Oh, I see you're wearing the good luck charm. Is it working?"

"No, not really," said Hrothmar. "Of course it might later—it might just take a while. How did the meeting with Thranduil go?"

"Oh, awful. We had a row."

"Why? What happened?" asked Hrothmar, sitting up.

"It was Findor's fault. He said Elrohir had placed him in charge of the bands of orc-fighters from Mirkwood—which if Elrohir did, it was silly of him. But I think it's more likely that Findor just made it up. Anyway, the king didn't like the idea and said so. And Findor said that since they only sent two messengers to Elrond's council, they couldn't complain if the decisions made there didn't benefit the Wood-elves."

"He said that? Really? To Thranduil? He's got nerve. What did Thranduil say?"

"Oh, he told him off properly. Said he was king in Mirkwood and he would appoint whom he pleased over his army, and that if Findor didn't like it he could go back to Lothlorien and no one would hinder him. Then he sent us all out before Findor could think of something to say back. It was all very unfriendly."

"Yes, we're not very nice to strangers here," said Hrothmar. He got up and began to lay a fire on the forge.

"Yes, so I've heard. But I can't say I blame you, living in a wood infested with giant spiders and whatnot. Not a single Mellorn as far as I saw. And there's a queer smell—comes up from the south sometimes—have you noticed it?"

"That's from the Dead Marshes."

"What are those?"

"Marshes, of course."

"Well, where are they?"

"They're pretty far away—several days' journey to the south; just before you come to Mordor. There was a big battle there a long time ago and now there are a lot of dead people there."

"Is that why they call them the Dead Marshes?" asked Elvisir. Getting no reply he added, "Was that the battle where Gil-galad and the rest defeated Sau— I mean—you know, the dark lord."

"I guess. I don't know."

"Oh, so it was before your time, then?"

"It was in the second age," said Hrothmar. "How old do you think I am?"

"How old _are_ you?"

"I was born in the third age."

"I thought you were older than that. Pooh, you're just a kid."

"You're one to talk," said Hrothmar scornfully. "I'm far more mature than you."

He blew up the fire to an orange glow and took out an unfinished blade. Elvisir pulled out his harp (which he seemed to always carry with him), made himself comfortable on Hrothmar's bed, and began to arrange his music.

"What's that you're singing?" asked Hrothmar, interrupting him in the middle of a song.

"What? Oh, it's high elvish. It means, _all paths are drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of—_"

"I know what it _means_," cut in Hrothmar. "I studied high elvish in electives. I meant what song is it?"

"I don't remember what it's called. It's very popular in Lothlorien just now—Lady Galadriel sings it all the time."

Since it was popular Hrothmar decided not to like it, but the tune stuck easily in the mind and he found the words running through his head against his will. Elvisir plucked the strings of his harp idly for a few minutes, and then began to amuse himself by composing a rap number to the rhythm of Hrothmar's blows until Hrothmar shied a hammer at him.

The next day at two thirty found Hrothmar, without Horthir's impulsion, sitting in the waiting room at Dr. Emeril's. He was not happy to be there. He had a strong aversion to doctors of any kind—they had the disagreeable tendency to probe searching fingers into old wounds—and women doctors were especially unsettling*.

Emeril was of the strenuous, efficient sort of elven woman who always seemed more interested by a problem than a person—you know, the sort who likes calculus. She had studied psychiatry from the High Elves and was the most prestigious mental practitioner in Mirkwood, but unfortunately, she was not really suited for the job by nature. Her cold gaze unnerved most people and her searching questions rarely received satisfactory answers. To do her justice, she believed herself to be a very warm and caring person, and therefore she always thought her patients to be in a worse state than they really were—they were always so terribly tense.

"Now, Hrothmar, I want you to relax," she said, as soon as they were seated in her office. "I'm not going to do a thing to you, I just want you to talk about yourself—as if I weren't here, if that would help."

"All right," said Hrothmar. "What do you want to know about me?"

"Well… tell me about your interests. What do you enjoy doing?"

"I don't know. Not much, really."

"You make swords, or something?"

"Yes."

"You don't like talking to people, do you?"

"No."

"Your brother says you have trust issues."

"What else did he tell you?" asked Hrothmar, annoyed.

"Um, let me see…" Emeril consulted her clipboard. "He said you're left-handed, you… scribble on walls with pencils, you're always using his toothbrush, you're a Hishe fan, and you used to collect insects when you were a kid."

"You got all that out of him?"

"He volunteered most of it. He thought it might help reveal your subliminal drives." Emeril made a determined effort. "We're only trying to help you, Hrothmar."

There was a pause.

"Tell me about your dreams," she said. "Is it the same dream over and over, or different every time?"

"I don't know. I can't ever remember them afterwards."

"But they keep you from sleeping?"

"Yes, I wake up all in a sweat and shaky, like I smoked something I shouldn't, and then I can't get back to sleep."

"Are they terrifying?"

"Yes… I think so. They give me a feeling…"

"Can you describe it?"

"It's… sort of like…"

"Like falling?"

"No. Like dark water."

"When did you first start having these dreams?"

"A long time ago. Since I was a kid. But they've been getting worse lately."

"And do you know what brought them on?" Emeril was writing rapidly on the clipboard.

"No. I've no idea. I've tried just about everything to get rid of them."

"Are they in some way related to your father's death, do you think?"

Hrothmar wondered if she had remembered how his father had died or if Horthir had told her. He was beginning to get edgy. Emeril knew too much.

"No, because I had them before he died."

"His death was probably traumatic for you. Do you think that's why you're afraid of orcs?"

There it was again—how had she known that?

"I'm not really afraid of orcs," said Hrothmar; 'they just creep me out, that's all."

"I know. It's a subliminal fear that's worked its way into your subconscious and is manifesting itself in your dreams. The question is, why? What's connecting the two things? Is it something in your past?"

"No," said Hrothmar. "It's nothing like that. It's not me. It's, it's something else. I can't help it."

He stopped and looked apprehensively at Emeril. Her dark eyes were fixed on him.

"What is it you fear?" she said.

"I… I fear the dark…" began Hrothmar uncertainly.

"The darkness inside you?"

"No… I don't know. I… can't…"

His words trailed off weakly.

"Hrothmar, how much do you want to be cured of this?" she asked.

"I was hoping I'd just get over it," said Hrothmar, abashed. "A lot of people simply live with it."

"Some people can," said Emeril. "Men can because they don't live very long. It's different for us."

"I suppose there are some advantages of mortality, then."

"Yes, everything is temporary for them. They compress the essence of a lifetime—which is for us eternity—into a brief period: a few years, or even a day, or a single hour. I've had a few humans as patients and they're very interesting to analyse."

She was silent for about a minute, writing something on a piece of paper.

"Here you are, Hrothmar," she said at last, handing the paper to him. "I'm referring your case to the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien. She does hypnosis and is extremely good—she's cured a lot of people. I think she can help you. You ought to set up an appointment with her as soon as possible. Just give her this paper—it has all the details of your case on it."

Hrothmar took the paper unwillingly and left the office. He was surprised on reaching his forge again to hear the sound of blows coming from within and was ready to be furious with the invader until he found that it was Elvisir, who had scattered sheet music about the usually tidy room and was passing the time banging the anvil with Hrothmar's best hammer.

"Hello, I've been looking all over for you," said Elvisir. "Where have you been? You look like you've been put through the wringer."

"I went to see a shrink," said Hrothmar.

"What? Why? Oh—for your orcphobia? Well, what did he say?"

"She said I should go see Galadriel."

"Oh, of course. Why didn't I think of that? Yes, I have a friend who went to her for manic depression and he was completely cured."

"Well, I'm not going to see her."

"Why not?"

Hrothmar tossed the paper onto the embers on his forge and pumped the bellows.

"I hear she can get inside your head and read your mind."

"Well… you don't have anything to hide, do you?"

"No, but I'm not going to go let some strange woman mesmerise me. Once she gets inside your head you might not be able to her back out again. I'd rather be stuck with the nightmares."

"Even if you can't sleep?" asked Elvisir.

"I'll get over it," said Hrothmar.

* * *

* No doubt Hrothmar also feared being sent to Mirkwood's mental institution, the dreaded Banwell (see _Frithiel_, chapter 10).


	4. White Warg

**Incunabulum 4: White Warg**

Hrothmar pondered his decision during the sleepless night that ensued, but arose the next morning as firmly convinced as ever. He went out into the fresh air and noticed an unusual amount of activity in the elven settlement. In fact, upon reflection he realised that there had been a lot of bustle the day before, only he had been too nervous about his psychiatrist appointment to notice it then.

The activity increased the closer he came to the elvenking's palace, and entering it, he found elves hurrying up and down the corridors, most of them carrying some kind of burden which was usually weapons of some sort. He found Horthir, after a good amount of looking, just leaving the great hall where Thranduil sat in state.

"Hello, Hrothmar, I was just about to come down to the forge to see you."

"Are they assembling the fighting bands already?" asked Hrothmar.

"Yes, Elrohir and Elladan are impatient to begin the war. I've been run off my feet since yesterday morning. Oh, by the way, I've been placed in command of all the orc-fighters. Thranduil told me night before last."

"Well, good for you. I hope you nominated me to command a company."

"No, sorry. I mean, I did, but Thranduil said no. You're needed here, actually."

"Why? I'm not the only smith in Mirkwood."

"You're the best. And I'm not buttering you up, either. You see, we've talked to the men of Esgaroth and they've promised to help us fight the orcs. We're to pay them in swords and other armaments, so you see, you'll be very busy here."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Hrothmar, visibly disappointed. "But I was rather hoping to get in on some of the fighting—it's the only time I ever get to wear a cape. You don't think Thranduil is making me stay here because he thinks I'll be afraid of the orcs, do you?"

"Of course not. It has nothing to do with that. Everyone knows you fight well. And speaking of that, how did your appointment go yesterday? I hope you went. I meant to come down and go with you—moral support, you know—but I was too busy."

"Well, I didn't need any moral support. I was fine. And you got mixed up about what you told her, too. I didn't collect bugs—that was Halrodil."

"It was? Oh, I thought that was you. Well, what did Emeril say about your case?"

"She can't help me," replied Hrothmar.

Horthir looked concerned. "She can't do anything at all? Did she give you a referral or anything?"

"Did you talk to her?" asked Hrothmar suspiciously.

"No, that was just a guess, but I must be right, then. What did she say?"

"She told me to go to Lothlorien and see Galadriel—but I'm not going."

"She thinks Galadriel can help you?"

"I can't go," said Hrothmar desperately. "I'll be too busy here—making weapons, remember?"

"No, I'll speak to Thranduil. I'm sure he'll let you off for a week or two. This is important."

"But she might not be able to help me either. And anyway, I'm not going."

"Why are you so afraid of doctors?" asked Horthir patiently.

"She's creepy. I'm more afraid of her than the orcs."

"You've only seen her a few times. Well, we'll talk about this later. I've a lot to do just now. I'll be down at the forge around noon to explain about the Esgaroth weapons—see you then."

Halrodil and Elvisir made a visit to the forge a short time later and found a crowd surrounding the hut. They were men from Esgaroth and they had brought plans and drawings of the weapons they wanted Hrothmar to make for them, but Hrothmar had locked them out. He could be heard banging away inside the hut.

"Hello, maybe you can get him to open shop," said one of the men to the two elves. "Thranduil told us to come down here, but _he _told us to go jump in the river."

Halrodil knocked on the door, but got no answer. "Hrothmar, it's me," he said. There was a nearer bang and the door shook as some hard object was flung at it from within.

Elvisir pushed him aside and put his mouth to the keyhole. "Hrothmar, open up, you silly dope. Stop sulking."

Hrothmar's voice came from within, but the only word they could make out sounded something like "morgul".

"Come on, let us in," repeated Elvisir. "I looked up how to cure orcphobia on wikihow."

The banging stopped and Hrothmar opened the door. "Don't let any of that foul brood in," he said.

"They're not foul," said Halrodil, as the two entered. "They're our allies."

"What are you so steamed about?" asked Elvisir.

Hrothmar recommenced banging without replying.

"You haven't been having a row too, have you?"

"Who's been having a row?" asked Hrothmar, looking up.

"Findor again," said Elvisir. "This morning—only this time it was with your brother."

"What about?"

"Oh, supplies or something like that, but of course the real reason is that Findor doesn't like being second in command and wants to make a fuss. Pity you missed it—it was quite a show. I'm surprised you didn't hear Horthir's yelling."

"He looked mad enough to hit Findor," said Halrodil.

"And now Horthir's mad at all the Lothlorien elves," said Elvisir. "When I asked him why you weren't going to be in my company he was incoherent."

Hrothmar brought down his hammer so hard he hurt his hand.

"Well, why not?" asked Elvisir.

"Thranduil's making me stay here," said Hrothmar with two fingers in his mouth. "I have to make weapons."

"But you'll miss all the fighting."

"I know. It's not fair—even Tauriel is in command of a fighting band, and she's a girl."

"They won't let me command one, either," said Halrodil.

"That's rotten," said Elvisir. "I'm not in command of one, either—I'm in Findor's—but it's awful that you won't be able to come."

He sat down and began to sort through his music with a disappointed air.

"Well?" said Hrothmar.

"What?"

"You said you looked up how to cure orcphobia on wikihow."

"Oh, yes. It said to try hypnotism, and it had a link to Galadriel's website."

"That's no good!" said Hrothmar in frustration. "I thought it was going to be some kind of home remedy, or something."

"Well, apparently that's the best cure. I'm sure it's not that bad, and just think how much better you'll feel afterwards."

"It's afterwards that worries me," said Hrothmar.

Both of Hrothmar's parents had died (of unnatural causes, because elves can't die of natural ones), and Horthir, being the eldest and taking his responsibilities as such very seriously, had made most of the decisions for his two younger brothers ever since. They did not often appreciate him telling them what to do, but they nearly always did it. That is why, despite his strenuous protests, Hrothmar rode out the next evening on his way to Lothlorien to see Galadriel about his orcphobia.

He went alone, although Horthir had tried to send another elf with him for safety. Hrothmar did not think there was much danger of meeting any orcs and he wanted to be by himself. He was rather afraid that getting hypnotised might be an embarrassing procedure and he didn't want anyone else there to see it done on him.

He had made good time and by evening on the second day had nearly reached the edge of Mirkwood. He had intended at first to cross the River Anduin at the old ford, but changed his mind when nearly out of the forest. For all its drawbacks, Mirkwood gave him a feeling of safety and concealment and he determined to continue south until he got closer to Lothlorien.

The night was deepening and the moon had just begun to rise, throwing long shadows across the leaf-strewn soil. Hrothmar rode in a deep revery, thinking of days long past and days more recent; the events of his varied existence and all the stories he had heard crossing through his mind in un-ordered succession until he had almost forgotten where he was and where he was going. He was recalled to reality by his horse, which stopped abruptly and began to sniff the air, flicking its ears this way and that.

Hrothmar looked about him and was struck by the unusual silence. Not an object, animate or inanimate, stirred and not a sound broke the stillness. He clutched the reins more tightly and thought at first that his hand trembled, but found, as he shifted in the saddle, that it was his horse that was shaking. Then, from far away he heard the sound of pattering feet, nearly half a mile away, but growing rapidly nearer.

Without warning his horse bolted. Hrothmar clung on and ducked as tree branches swept over him, snatching like fingers at his long elven locks. His horse plunged through the clinging underbrush, Hrothmar doing his best to guide it through the most open part of the terrain. Then above the sound of his horse's hoof beats he heard a breathy panting and looking back he saw dim shadows racing along behind him. They were wargs from the Misty Mountains, drawn by some evil influence far from their customary hunting grounds.

There was no place of safety nearby and his only course seemed to be to run and hope the wargs weren't hungry enough to follow him far. For a moment he regretted not having a bow. He looked back again and as he did so a tree branch caught him hard on the side of the head and knocked him from the saddle. He threw up his hands and caught hold of it and hung kicking for a moment, then hauled himself up onto the limb.

"Oh, my stars; oh, my stars," he gasped feverishly, clutching at the trunk of the tree. "Oh, Elbereth."

He looked down. The wargs had passed on in pursuit of his horse; he could hear their footfalls growing farther away, but at home as he was in trees, he did not feel very safe in this one with that many wargs about. He clung to the trunk and tried to calm his shattered nerves. He was rather glad there had been no one about to witness his funk. He was ashamed of it, but even yet he could not quite pull himself together.

His breathing slowly grew easier and he began to consider his options. He did not want to stay there, but he did not want to run away from wargs on foot, either. He looked down, and as he did, he suddenly saw a dark shape just beneath the limb on which he sat. It did not move, but its very immobility was of an animate, sentient nature. It was a great warg, sitting back on its haunches, and although Hrothmar could not see its eyes, he could feel them fixed on him.

For a moment it seemed that every nerve connection in him had gone dead. He tried twice before he was able to move his hand to the haft of his knife.

"Snap out of it," he thought to himself—but did not dare to say it out loud. "Look, it's just one. I can handle that."

But the darkness and solitude filled him with a horror that could not be conquered by any amount of mental exertion. He clung to his perch, the sweat creeping from under his hair, and a horrible panic filling his mind.

Then a strange feeling passed over him, such as he had never felt before. It was as if a shudder had run down his spine. Like the other elves he was able to communicate with speechless things in a sort of wordless dialogue, although his talent ran more in the direction of stones and minerals rather than trees and plants, as the other elves' did. Now suddenly, although he had no idea how it came about, he found that he could understand the warg beneath him as if it had spoken to him. He seemed to feel its wild freedom; its fierce delight in the chase; the strange, unearthly lure of moonlight. And as if awakened, something dark in his soul replied.

The warg stood up, its neck craned back to stare up at him, and wagged its tail. Hrothmar did not know afterwards what he said—he had a vague sensation of a sort of feral excitement—and leaning low over the branch, he dropped lightly onto the animal's back.

The warg took off like a stone displaced on a mountain slope, but after three spasmodic springs settled to a steady lope. Dark shadows materialised on either side until they were in the centre, and slightly in the lead of, the pack of fifty or so. Hrothmar clung desperately, with his eyes straight ahead. He had no idea where he was being taken, but his fear no longer incapacitated him; instead it filled him with a wild energy.

They broke from the cover of the trees and raced across smooth grassland, grey in the light of the full moon and stretching away on either side clear to the edge of the dark sky. The wargs ran like grey shadows and like a flock of birds in unison. Hrothmar looked down and saw that the largest one, which had seemed so dark beneath the trees, was as white as the moonlight and he himself clung to its back like a spot of ink on a sheet of paper.

The pack had left off chasing Hrothmar's horse and turned, as if led by some call, to the open country. They ran for leagues across the gently rolling land without once pausing, until at last they were running up the steep slope of a hill on the top of which the round moon seemed to sit, perched like a silver onion. They reached the crest and then at last they stopped where the ground fell away in a rocky bluff. Just below lay the River Anduin, broad and shining, and far beyond all dark on the horizon lay the Misty Mountains.

The largest warg came to a stop so suddenly that Hrothmar tumbled off onto the grass. He sat up and looked about him at the wargs, some standing, others flopped panting on the ground. None of them seemed eager to eat him. They were moonstruck, and in a moment the air was filled with their long, wavering howls.

The concert continued for a brief space and then faded away slowly and the night was still again. Then from far away, as if in answer, an orc horn sounded from the west in the direction of the mountains. The wargs snapped to attention like pointers, staring off towards the sound. Then they turned their heads in harmony and stared at Hrothmar, as if awaiting some word of command. It was of course the most foolish thing in the world to ride off on his own in search of orcs, but Hrothmar was as moonstruck as the wargs and a strange desire sprung up in him to follow that summons from the mountains.

He leapt onto the back of the white warg and the pack shot off again straight down the bluff, leaping from rock to rock and dislodging quite a few on their way. Hrothmar saw vaguely the rocks hurtling past, but the moonlight on the water below hurt his eyes and he could not see much else. Suddenly the white warg leaped out into empty air and Hrothmar felt himself falling for what seemed a long and sickening moment before at last being plunged over his head into foaming water.

He came up blowing and shaking the water from his eyes. All around him the bright river was speckled with swimming wargs. Hrothmar clung desperately to the white warg's fur, but it was wet and slipped from his grasp and the rapid current began to bear him downstream. Elves may be good swimmers in many senses, but they are not strong enough to fight a strong current. Hrothmar realised the uselessness of trying to reach the far bank and let the river bear him along until he washed up at last on a snag, nearly a mile downstream.

He clambered onto the bank and collapsed on the grass, feeling more tired than he could remember ever feeling before. For hours he lay there gazing upward, dizzied by the moon and the wheeling stars, until at last their light was swallowed up by the light of dawn.

Two days later Horthir and a band of elves found him near the edge of Mirkwood, working his way back on foot.


	5. Orc War

**Incunabulum 5: Orc War in Earnest**

"We thought you had been killed," said Horthir. "Beorn found your horse wandering near the old ford two days ago and brought it back, hoping for a reward—needless to say, Thranduil didn't give him one. Was it orcs, then? I didn't expect them so far east."

"No, wargs."

"Really? A serious force?"

"About fifty or so. I was knocked off my horse and I thought it better to come back."

"I warned you against going alone," said Horthir. "But of course against wargs you would have needed large numbers, so it wasn't your fault, really. Perhaps it would be better to go by boat. We can accompany you as far as the river."

"No, that's all right," said Hrothmar. "I'm going back."

"You do not mean to go to Lorien?" asked Horthir with concern.

"I don't need to," said Hrothmar with as cheerful an expression as he was capable of making. "I'm cured. I slept last night for the first time in I don't know how long, and not a single nightmare. They're gone."

"That's fantastic," said Horthir. "But they may come back."

"No," said Hrothmar. "They're gone for good; I'm sure of it. I feel different."

"What made them go?"

"I faced my fears, that's all. –With the wargs. It's sort of a psychological concept, facing the thing one fears. Emeril could tell you about it, probably."

"But you've often fought orcs."

"Well, this was different. I was alone and had to face them by myself."

"Of course I'm happy for you," said Horthir. "But it seems too simple a cure. Anyway, I hope you're right. I don't want to have to be worrying about you while I'm off on campaign."

"You don't have to worry about me," said Hrothmar.

The explanation of his cure that Hrothmar had given Horthir was slightly different from the one he gave himself when he was once back in his forge and alone. He at last had a chance to think through everything he had been through and he had to admit that it was not so innocent as he had made it sound.

"It was simply a bit of nastiness that wanted to come out," he thought. "It wasn't really my own inclination. It was like something else was making me do it. Well, now it's out of me and I'm free of it and the nightmares and orcphobia and the rest. I'm all right now."

Whatever the explanation, his sleep continued to be nightmare-free and the relief this brought softened to a great extent the disappointment he felt watching the various fighting bands set out from Mirkwood without him. The war news sent back from the front was good at first. There seemed to be few orcs and their colonies were quickly broken up and destroyed. But after a week or so of propitious tidings a messenger arrived with different news: there were more orcs than expected and they needed reinforcements.

While this unexpected information was still being ventilated, Horthir himself arrived to discuss the problem with Thranduil. Hrothmar was not yet without hope that he would be sent to fight and so hung about the palace for most of the morning waiting for the conference to end. He wanted to talk to Horthir about the war and—well, just talk to him. Horthir was a comforting person to talk to and Hrothmar had been feeling shaken up for the past few days. He was having dreams again—not nightmares, but strange dreams that left him after waking with an odd feeling.

He was wandering aimlessly down a deserted corridor when he heard voices up ahead and found Findor and another Lothlorien elf conversing in low tones. He had heard Horthir's name in their discussion and stopped nearby to listen.

The two elves gave Hrothmar an uninviting stare for several minutes, but Hrothmar was not easily frightened off. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned against the wall with a companionable expression. Seeing that he was not going to leave, Findor and the other elf changed their tactics and pretended not to notice him.

"Legolas is the fit one to lead. He's no wood-elf. And why shouldn't he, after all? Thranduil wants only to spite us."

"Legolas is no general," replied Findor. "But if Horthir were to fall out of favour, the king would soon dismiss him."

"Haven't you told him Horthir has bungled this whole affair?"

"That will not change his mind. Still, I have hopes."

"Hopes of what?" asked Hrothmar.

Findor gave him a long look, but deigned no reply.

Hrothmar had no time to speak to his brother on that or any other subject, for Horthir set out again immediately after finishing with the elvenking and Hrothmar's own duties were nearly doubled. He worked at his forge all day and half the night sometimes, turning out weapons of war; and as he did so he tried to beat out the troubles in his mind as he beat out sparks from the iron.

He could not deny it any longer: the strange feeling that had controlled him on the night he met the wargs was again growing inside him and each day it became stronger. It was a desire for something, he did not even know what—a mixture of longing and fear… and a strange impulse to do something rather nasty. He wished Elvisir were there to talk to him and take his mind off of it, but as he was alone day after day the feeling grew on him.

The only company he had very much of was the men of Esgaroth who arrived periodically to collect their payment of elven swords. They were always inclined to talk but Hrothmar usually did not respond to their friendly inquiries.

"I'm a smith myself," said one of them in sanguine confidence of striking a friendship. "But I've never managed to get such a good temper as the elven blades have. A beautiful blade."

"It is incredibly sharp," remarked one Esgarothian who had just cut his finger on it.

"I like the filigree, but could you put a dragon on mine instead of flowers?"

Horthir pushed several individuals out of his way and entered the smoky forge.

"Hello, Hrothmar," he said. "I hate to pile more work on you, but I have some arms that need repair."

"Are you here?" asked Hrothmar in surprise, for he had thought his brother many miles away.

"Yes, for a few hours and then I'm off again." Horthir piled a collection of broken armour and weapons on the floor. "When you finish with those, I'll need you to deliver them to us in the mountains. That will you give a break, anyway."

"Thanks," said Hrothmar. "How's the war?"

"Going well, only we've been encountering a lot of opposition. We're going to need to touch Esgaroth for another five hundred men or so."

He stood for a moment, watching the Esgarothians who were deep in conversation about prior battles they had been in, orc, dragon, and otherwise.

"I'm to take that lot back with me," Horthir said. "They don't seem a very rowdy bunch."

"How can they be so cheerful about fighting when their lives are so short already?" said Hrothmar with sudden curiosity.

"They say death was a gift to men from Iluvatar," said Horthir. "Men believe that immortality lies in mortality—that to truly live one must be able to die."

"But they fear death, too."

"In a different way. They are not bound to this earth as we are. For them death is as much a part of life as birth."

For the first time Hrothmar wished he understood men. But he did not know exactly why and he soon forgot about it.

That night he awoke in a sweat, sitting straight up in bed and clutching the sheet so hard that his wrists hurt. He had had a nightmare again and this time it had been worse than the others.

He dared not even try to go back to sleep, but fled from the hut as if it were haunted by evil spirits. Outdoors the moon was reduced to a paring and the stars shone coldly. Hrothmar breathed deeply twice and then shuddered from head to foot.

He turned and followed the course of the river past the low huts and treetop dwellings of the other elves. Something had to be done. He could not live with nightmares and his desire to go to Lothlorien for treatment had not grown stronger since his last attempt. His cure had been temporary, as Horthir had feared, but it had at least been a cure—it might be repeatable.

He went to the stables where his horse stood sleeping on its feet. He led it out without bit or saddle far into the forest, leaped lightly onto its back, and set off at a gallop south-westwards. Far into the next day he rode, following secret elven paths, and rested only briefly before setting off again at the coming of night, southwards this time, towards the edge of Mirkwood.

He left the forest in nearly the same place he had met the wargs. The gently rolling ground stretched away before him just as he remembered it, but it was bare and deserted. Hrothmar was not sure just what he had hoped to find there, or if he had thought the place itself might somehow affect him as it had that other night. In any case his hopes had been vain and he was no closer to being rid of his fear.

He set off once more, aimlessly at first, simply because he did not wish to return home at once, but gradually he began heading more and more southwards. He reentered Mirkwood as the sun rose the following day. Here the trees were close together and creeping vines grew tangled over the ground, catching at his horse's feet. Strange pattering sounds echoed off in the depths of the wood but not a living creature was to be seen.

At length Hrothmar came to the foot of a hill. On the sides and top of the hill no trees stood, but only crumbling stone walls like broken teeth. All was deserted, but a feeling of menace hung over the place. It was Dol Guldur, the Hill of Dark Sorcery. Hrothmar did not know why he had come there or what he would do now that he had come, but it seemed that some intention had been fulfilled simply by coming. His horse was restless, but Hrothmar lingered, looking up at the dark ruin. Then, with an elven command bidding his horse to remain where it was, he climbed the hill on foot and passed through an archway.

The place was definitely deserted. Hrothmar clambered up the stairs of a disintegrating tower, startling a flock of crows into the sky above, and looked out over the treetops of Mirkwood. One could see very far from that vantage point—farther, probably, than was natural, even for an elf. Northwards and westwards the land seemed to lie peacefully in the sunlight, but southwards Hrothmar saw a dank mist rolling up from the Dead Marshes, mixed with the clammy smell of the swampland.

As he stared at the phenomenon, his ears began to catch sounds carried up with the mist—voices and depressed screams that chilled his blood. He trembled and wished he had not come. He had heard tales of the Dead Marshes and of the terrible things buried there. It was rumoured that, if you were not careful, you could be lured down into the slimy pools and strangled by the unspeakable things that lay at the bottom.

He turned suddenly and his eyes darted over the area behind him. There was nothing there, but for an instant he had felt as if he were being watched. Hastily retracing his steps, he returned to the bottom of the hill, mounted his horse, and rode back into the shadows of the trees.

He reached the elven settlement a few days later, hoping he not been missed. No one, however seemed to have noticed his disappearance. News of the war had arrived but a short time before and, it being good news, everyone was elated. In the palace, Hrothmar bumped into a party of elves rolling casks down to the wine cellar.

"So what's happened?" he asked.

"There has been a great victory and thousands of orcs have been killed," replied one of the elves. "A rider brought the news not many hours ago. Thranduil is holding a feast to celebrate."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, we're getting ready now. Several fighting bands are back on furlough and more are expected. I think your brother's troop is arriving later this evening."

"Now doesn't seem the time for taking a break," observed Hrothmar.

"Oh, the orcs are beaten now, beyond a doubt."

The elf bent and gave a feeble push to the barrel.

"Why do the people of Esgaroth always send us such great casks?" he said.

The corridor being slanted, the barrel began to roll faster than the elf had expected and he had to chase after it without waiting for a reply.

Hrothmar turned and suddenly saw Findor several paces away, gazing at him with an inscrutable expression on his sallow face. Hrothmar could not fathom what the blond elf was thinking, but he seemed almost pleased about something. Without reason, Hrothmar's mind went back to the moment in Dol Guldur when he had felt as if eyes were upon him. Had Findor…?"

As he stared at him, Findor turned and strode away. Hrothmar stood, unblinking, trying to sort things out in his mind, when a hand was suddenly clamped onto his shoulder from behind.

"There you are. Where have you been? I couldn't pick the lock on your forge."

Hrothmar jumped six inches vertically and came down on Elvisir's toe.

"Oh, it's you," he said.

"Yes, it's me. You need to lose a few pounds. Come on and open shop so we can talk somewhere in peace. I want to show you a new song I wrote."

Elvisir's arrival was a tremendous relief to Hrothmar. At last he could speak to someone without worrying about consequences. Elvisir was the best kind of friend and knew how to keep his mouth shut when necessary. When they were once safely inside the smithy with the door shut, Hrothmar gave him an abridged account of his trip to Dol Guldur and his suspicions of Findor.

"He left for Mirkwood several days ago, so it's possible he followed you," said Elvisir. "He's been making no end of trouble for Horthir at the front, and Horthir sent him back with a blank message. But why on earth did you go to that awful place to begin with?"

"I was hoping if I faced some kind of fear, I'd get rid of my nightmares again," Hrothmar explained. "All right, I was desperate. But now I really don't know what to do. Do you think it would cause a row if Findor told?"

"What if he did? He can't prove anything."

"He doesn't have to," said Hrothmar grimly.

"How do you mean?"

"All he has to do is ask Galadriel to look in that mirror of hers."

Hrothmar had not told Elvisir about his adventure with the wargs, but the remembrance of it was bothering him. Dol Guldur was bad, but the warg ride would weigh far more heavily against him if anyone found out about it.

The elvenking's palace was full of music that evening and the wine flowed freely. Everyone had been invited, but Hrothmar alone had not showed up. He hung about outside the palace within sight of the glow of the festivities, but could not summon enough gaiety to feel like joining them.

A restless feeling was growing within him, and another feeling which he knew well—an awful, sickening fear. He did not believe as the others did that the orcs would soon be defeated-what of those voices in the forest? And even if they were defeated, he had known all along that killing the orcs was not the answer to his problem.

At last he left the settlement and strode through the forest, following elven paths. He walked aimlessly, but some impulse seemed to lead him northeast until, after about an hour's walking, he came to the edge of Mirkwood. The land lay in half shadow under a moon that had fattened to a thick crescent. To the northeast loomed darkly Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and farther south (for Hrothmar stood on a high point of ground) could just be caught a gleam of the Long Lake with the river flowing into it.

But Hrothmar stared northwards, towards the Grey Mountains, as if waiting and listening for some word or signal. All was silent. At length he shook himself and shivered, as if awakened.

"It's useless," he muttered. "There's nothing here."

And he wondered what he had been looking for.

He had turned to go when suddenly, carried faintly on the wind, he caught a sound. He turned back and swept the open country, searching for movement. There was nothing to be seen, but again he heard the noise, faint and far off—the sound of a wolf howl.

For a moment he stood, unable to move. He could see nothing, but the sound was there and the strange feeling of the night in the forest with the wargs came rushing back to him. He turned back and began to follow the sound northwards, hesitatingly at first, but soon at a run. As he ran the land rose and dipped before him in innumerable hollows, and when he had gone several furlongs and crested a small hill he saw emerging from one of these depressions a bevy of shadowy forms, running westwards in the moonlight.

The foremost shadow raised its head and bayed and the rest of the pack answered in chorus. Hrothmar ran faster. The wolves had not yet seen him and held on their course. In the back of his mind Hrothmar knew that what he was doing was suicide, but somehow he seemed unable to stop himself. He ran on, scarcely seeing or hearing anything, until a sudden blow between his shoulders sent him plunging headfirst into the grass and he tumbled to the bottom of a gentle slope.

For a moment he was too dazed to do more than blink. Then he felt someone catch hold of him and pull him into a sitting position.

"Sorry, old man, but it was the only way to stop you."

"Horthir!"

"What were you trying to do?"

Hrothmar struggled and tried to regain his feet.

"Stop; you can't," said Horthir, pinning him down.

They were fairly evenly matched in strength and for several minutes grappled with each other in the grass. At last Hrothmar fell back panting and the wild look slowly died out of his eyes. He groaned.

"You've gone fey," said Horthir. "I didn't think that could really happen to somebody. What's wrong, Hrothmar? What's happened?"

Hrothmar sniffed and rubbed his nose. It left a dark streak on the back of his hand, and looking at the stain in the moonlight he realised it was blood.

"You'd better tell me," said Horthir. "Are the dreams back?"

Hrothmar nodded.

"Is that why you went to Dol Guldur?"

"Did Findor tell you?"

"I had hoped he wasn't telling the truth. You're not trying to face your fears at all, are you? You're looking for something else."

"Let me go," Hrothmar groaned, attempting to get free of his brother's grasp. "Leave me alone."

"I won't let you destroy yourself," said Horthir desperately.

"Why not?" muttered Hrothmar. "It would be better."

"No, there is still hope of a cure."

Hrothmar stopped struggling, and Horthir went on hopefully. "If you fear the Lady Galadriel, I won't make you go to her. I'll speak to Lord Elrond. He is very wise. He may know what to do."

Hrothmar entertained no hopes, but for his brother's sake, subsided into passivity.

"Hrothmar, I'll do what I can for you, but promise me you won't do anything crazy," said Horthir.

Hrothmar sniffed again and clamped a handkerchief over his nose. "I probise," he muttered.


	6. Ambush

**Incunabulum 6: An Ambush**

For several days Hrothmar had no more nightmares. He felt almost as if something had been lifted from his mind now that Horthir knew everything and was no longer threatening to send him to Galadriel. The elf fighting-bands had gone back to finish the war in the Misty Mountains and even Hrothmar had high hopes of their success. It was with a light heart that he set out some days later with his horse laded with repaired weapons.

It took him some time to find the elven forces, for they were good at concealing encampments, but at last he found a sentry—none other than Elvisir—hidden in a clump of brush. Various runaway sheets of music scattered about the grass made his hiding place rather noticeable.

"Hello, where are the others?" asked Hrothmar.

"Oh, hello, Hrothmar. Thranduil let you off sword-forging, did he?" asked Elvisir, who was apparently in the middle of composing a song. "The camp is further up; I'll take you to it."

They set off together, Elvisir filling Hrothmar in on the latest war news.

"Horthir and the other Wood-elves are up in the mountains. It's only Lothlorien elves at camp just now, except for your brother Halrodil. Horthir left him behind."

"How's Halrodil doing?" asked Hrothmar, who was feeling in a benignant mood. "Has he killed his first cave troll yet?"

"No, but he's done decently by orcs in the last few days."

"Good for him. Then I take it there's still some fighting to do. I was afraid it would all be over by the time I got here."

"No, unfortunately there were more orcs left than we thought. But we'll soon have them finished off. Elrohir had a fabulous idea: several forces have gone into the mountains to surround what's left of the main orc army and drive them down to the plain where our forces are waiting to intercept them. It's brilliant. They'll be completely surrounded."

"Then it sounds as if I got here just in time."

They arrived at the encampment a short time later to find a few elves standing about in a desultory manner.

"Why are there so few?" asked Hrothmar, looking around in surprise.

"They're spread out in bands across the area so they'll be in position when the orcs show themselves. We don't know exactly where the orcs will appear, so Findor has a larger group here for reserve."

"Do you mean Findor's in charge here? Why didn't you tell me? I'd have kept away."

As he spoke an elf came hurrying across the open to the copse in which the elves were camped.

"A rider approaches from the mountains," he exclaimed.

At this news Findor materialised in his usual unnerving fashion and waited in cold and spectral silence for the rider to arrive. The sound of hooves soon followed and then the horseman appeared.

When they saw him the elves gave a general start. He had ridden hard and his horse was dark with sweat and flecked with foam. The rider's clothes were torn in many places and he was bleeding profusely from various surface wounds. He dismounted and staggered towards Findor.

"Ill tidings," he gasped. "The enemy were ware of our plans. They've made a counter-stroke and completely disrupted our communications with Elrohir."

"Whose band are you from?" asked Findor, grasping the situation rapidly.

"Legolas's. He sent me to bring up what reinforcements are available."

Findor's lieutenant, who had been listening to all this, glanced round the encampment.

"We cannot possibly reach him in time," he said. "Moreover, the attack may come at any moment and we must be ready to meet the orcs in the open."

"No attack can be made until the lines are re-formed," said the messenger.

"Where is Horthir's band?" asked Findor.

"I know not. They received the brunt of the attack and our bands were separated. In the darkness all was confusion. The fighting continues even as I speak."

"Bring my horse," said Findor to a bystanding elf.

"What do you mean to do?" asked his lieutenant.

"We cannot imperil the success of this campaign to help the wood-elves repair their own blunders. I will ride alone to find Horthir."

"He is coming now," shouted Halrodil, running towards the party from the edge of the copse.

His eyes were sharp, even for elf eyes. It was not until some time later that Horthir arrived, breathing hard like the first messenger and with a desperate look in his eyes.

"Findor!" he shouted, reining his horse in hard, but without dismounting. "Tell Haldir to collect the Lothlorien forces and bring them up to the northern passes as fast as they can march."

"Where is your force?" asked Findor without moving.

"They've been scattered. I know not how many remain alive. We were completely cut off from the rest and surrounded. You must bring up help at once if they are to be saved."

"And yet _you_ were able to escape," remarked Findor drily. "How was that?"

"I and one other fought our way through to bring help. My companion was was slain by orc arrows on the mountain slopes. Do you doubt my word? Look at the mountains—already the smoke goes up from orc fires."

Hrothmar saw that this was indeed true, but Findor did not honour the mountains with so much as a glance.

"Our lines are tenuous already as you well know," he said to Horthir. "I cannot ask Haldir to send even a small force. To do so would be to ruin our hopes of victory."

"Victory!" exclaimed Horthir. "Even if they all come up immediately it will only be to prevent total annihilation. There can be no talk now of victory."

"Thranduil might call such talk defeatist," said Findor calmly. "He will not be pleased when he hears you have led his troops into an ambush."

Horthir seemed almost to reel. He gazed at Findor with a hopeless amazement.

"Even at a time like this," he said slowly, "your ambition is uppermost. Can you not understand? Our people are dying!"

"_Your_ people," corrected Findor. "Your flight has left Legolas and his force entirely at the enemy's mercy. I will send a messenger to Elrohir to inform him of the situation."

Horthir straightened and his eyes grew hard. "Elrohir is already aware of the situation," he said. "He is in full retreat. I advise you to look to your own position. By nightfall the orcs will be upon you."

He turned his horse with a vicious jerk and galloped from the encampment in the direction of the mountains. Hrothmar, who had watched the interchange with growing amazement and dismay, suddenly came to life and dashed to where the horses were tethered, with Halrodil close behind him.

He and Halrodil, both mounted, broke from the cover of the copse at the the same time and raced across the plain after Horthir, who was already small in the distance. His horse was half spent and his pursuers soon overtook him, but he was unaware of their presence until Hrothmar shouted to him.

"Hi! Horthir!"

Horthir, a furlong in the lead, suddenly wheeled his horse and turned in consternation.

"What the Morgoth are you doing?" he shouted.

Hrothmar, who had never heard such language from any elf—much less his brother—was struck dumb in admiration.

"We're coming, too," said Halrodil.

"Idiots!" cried Horthir wildly. "Can't you see it's useless?"

Hrothmar, recovered from his shock, stood his ground.

"We're brothers," he said. "We do things together."

Horthir looked at them both for one instant, then with a spasmodic jerk of his knee, rode towards Hrothmar.

"Do something for me," he said in a low voice when he was near enough for Hrothmar to hear it. "Take Halrodil back to the camp and make sure he stays there."

"Horthy, old man," remonstrated Hrothmar.

"I trust you, Hrothmar," said Horthir.

Without another word he turned and galloped off. For a moment Hrothmar watched him, motionless. Halrodil hesitated and then began to ride after him. Shaking off his stupor, Hrothmar rode forward and caught hold of a frayed rope which still hung from Halrodil's mount. They watched Horthir grow small and disappear at the base of the mountains.

"Come on," said Hrothmar, and the two made their way back to the elven encampment.

Findor made no comment when he saw them return. He had taken Horthir's warning and had sent a message to Haldir to consolidate his forces. The Lothlorien bands were strung out thinly along positions chosen for advantage in attack and not defence. Findor's own camp was soon packed up and moved to a stronger position and there the elves waited as the night fell.

In the dusk parties of elves began to pass through the encampment, bringing whispers of the disasters in the mountains. Hrothmar and Halrodil listened hopefully for news of their own forces, but none came. By dawn it was clear that the war had taken on a different aspect.

Early in the morning a message came from Haldir saying that Elrohir's forces had been obliged to retreat and that now the two elven armies were separated by the Misty Mountains and, lurking within them, a larger army of orcs than the elves had thought existed.

Also came the news that Horthir's band had been almost completely eliminated and Horthir himself slain.

A band of Wood-elves reached the encampment at noon. They belonged to Legolas's force and were mostly walking wounded making their way back to Mirkwood for medical aid. They stopped at the camp for the noon meal and gave a brief account of what had occurred in the mountains.

"We had reconnoitred an orc tunnel," said the most loquacious of the party; "and were following it with our forces more spread out than was entirely wise, when we were suddenly assaulted from a side passage and everything was thrown into confusion. Horthir's band was cut off and surrounded—I fear many did not escape. Our party was behind them and so we tried to make our way back out while fighting a rearguard action. Horthir and his elves fought their way forward to find an exit, and so we went on getting farther and farther apart. There were hordes of orcs."

"Hordes and hordes," interposed a second elf with a bandage over one eye.

"They kept pouring in from passages on either side and soon we were surrounded. Suddenly we saw Horthir again, far down the passage, hacking his way towards us with the blue light of his sword glimmering in the darkness. He fought furiously, but the orcs at last brought him down. We tried many times to recover his body, but we could not."

Hrothmar saw suddenly, as a bright flash leaves a dark etching on the mind, his father's body as it had looked when recovered at last from the orcs after many days. His eyes turned to Halrodil. Halrodil understood none of that, for he had never seen his father. He had not yet been born when it had happened.

"His spirit will rest in the halls of Mandos," said Halrodil solemnly.

Hrothmar winced and turned away.

The sun drew towards the west; evening fell and the stars came out. Elvisir sat on a stone in a patch of grey moonlight, surrounded by scattered sheets of music, alternately plucking chords from his harp and jotting notes onto the nearest sheet. At last he spread the music out in front of him and began to sing a lament for Horthir in which he likened him to Fingolfin of old who went to fight Morgoth in single combat. And when he had finished, he played the favourite song of Galadriel:

_Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!_

_Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.  
Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!_

_Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar!_

_Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.  
Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!*_

Hrothmar sat alone, silent and unmoving. Eventually he was aware that Findor had come past and stopped a moment to stare down at him. He did not look up, but suddenly the memory of Dol Guldur and what Findor knew about it flashed into his mind. It filled him with uneasiness and he followed Findor with his eyes as he passed on.

Findor strode over to Elvisir, handed him a piece of paper, and dispatched him with a wave of the hand. Elvisir looked at the paper inquiringly.

"For Haldir?" he said.

"Yes. Get."

Elvisir went to the picket string, mounted a horse, and rode out of the encampment. Hrothmar got to his feet as Findor came towards him again.

"You are no longer needed here," said Findor. "You've delivered your freight; return to Mirkwood."

"The war isn't over yet."

"It is for the present, thanks to your brother's mismanagement."

Halrodil, who was sitting nearby, got up with a distressed expression.

"I was not referring to you," said Findor.

"We know whom you're referring to," said Hrothmar. "It wasn't Horthir's fault we were beaten."

"You have not seen enough of the fighting to know. The wood-elves have ruined our chances again and again by their blunders."

"I've seen Horthir fight," said Hrothmar. "Don't think you can fool me. You're just jealous."

"Jealous?" said Findor, his cold eyes flashing.

"Jealous and you hate Wood-elves. You wanted him out of the way."

Findor took a step towards Hrothmar. "It has been rumoured that our kinsfolk were betrayed in the mountains," he said in a low voice. "The wood-elves inhabit a dark forest, and their lands lie on the very borders of the dark lord's country."

"You can't pin anything like that on us."

"There are ways of learning the truth."

Hrothmar was silent, remembering what Findor knew. The old fear returned, but this time he could define it—a terror of being trapped. His attempts at getting free seemed to have only ensnared him more.

Halrodil understood nothing of Findor's implications and spoke up in Hrothmar's defence.

"Hrothmar is right," he said. "It was your fault we did not make the attack in time last week, because you delayed to send the message."

Scarcely deigning to look at him, Findor delivered a back-handed blow which sent the lightweight Halrodil halfway across the camp.

"This is no time for petty quarrels," he said to Hrothmar. "Do you wish to lodge a formal complaint with the elves of Lothlorien?"

Hrothmar was wild with rage but, as was usual for him, his anger only cleared his head and made him more cautious than ever.

"I have no quarrel with any of the Lothlorien elves except for you," he said.

"Your quarrel is with all the Eldar, Avari**."

Hrothmar swung. Findor ducked, but Hrothmar had anticipated that and his next blow, delivered with his other hand, connected where it counted—in the hollow just beneath the jawbone. Findor reeled back and nearly lost his footing and Hrothmar was following up his advantage when a blow to the back of his head informed him that Findor had allies.

He felt multiple arms clutching at him and dragging him backwards, but his smith work had given him an edge over the others in muscle and weight. He broke free and rushed forward. Through the confusion he heard Halrodil shouting, "Hrothmar! Hrothmar!" He paused. Something struck him across the face and he fell back against a tree***.

He tried to get up, but Findor stood over him panting, his breath smoking in the cool autumn night, a long white knife in his hand pinned against Hrothmar's throat. Behind him Halrodil stood, swaying a bit, pale and with spouting blood from his forehead. Apparently he had tried to stop Findor.

"Mirkwood will not forget this," said Hrothmar.

"Shut up," said Findor. "Don't waste the little breath left you in idle threats."

Hrothmar glanced around at the watching elves. They were all of the blond, Lothlorien variety, but surely they had better feelings despite that fact.

"Are you just going to stand there?" he said. "He sent my brother to his death. He might have saved the battle if he had brought up troops in time. He's the traitor."

Findor gave the knife a vicious twitch which drove it into Hrothmar's neck and loosed a trickle of blood.

"The evidence is too strong against you," he said. "Did I not care to know the truth so strongly I would slay you now, but you will stand trial in Lorien."

Hrothmar looked at the other elves, but met only dark stares.

Findor lowered the knife and sheathed it. "Lock up the wood-elves," he said.

Immediately Hrothmar and Halrodil were thrust into a wooden cage, reserved only for prisoners, and hoisted into the tree limbs above, all possible means of escape effectively cut off. Through the long hours they sat together, neither speaking, nursing their mutual injuries.

Through the blackness of his grief, Hrothmar's anger burned with a white-hot glow. Yet he was afraid, too. He had heard of Galadriel's talents in mind reading and knew he stood a small chance at his trial with her as judge, Findor as prosecuting attorney, and a host of Lothlorien elves as jury. Much as he had feared to stand before Galadriel as a medical patient, he feared even more to face her as a criminal.

Haldir had decided to consolidate the Lothlorien forces and bands of elves continued to converge on the camp through the night. The prisoners' lofty position and the accounts of the evening's events circulating freely among the elves exposed the two brothers to much undesired attention. It was very uncomfortable in the cage, as well. Halrodil dozed a bit, but Hrothmar suffered from his usual insomnia.

Near midnight there was a stir in the wooden cage. Hrothmar clutched at the sides, for it seemed to be swinging, but he soon realised that it was being slowly lowered. He readied himself for some villainy of Findor's, but when the cage had reached the ground and the door had been opened, the elf who insistently beckoned them out was Elvisir.

"I've heard it all," he said. "Don't bother explaining, just get out of here."

"Where to?" asked Hrothmar drily, but climbing out of the cage without delay.

"Your best chance is to go northwards; you'll probably meet the fewest elf bands in that direction."

"I mean we can't escape for long," said Hrothmar. "If we go back to Mirkwood, the Lothlorien elves will make Thranduil hand us over—and Thranduil will probably do it, too."

"Well, I've done the best I can. If you can't trust your own people, I don't know what you can do."

"Why don't you tell Haldir the truth about what Findor did?"

"I can't," said Elvisir. "I don't like Findor, but he's a Lothlorien elf and I'm a Lothlorien elf, and I can't go against him. We high elves have to hang together."

"Even against the truth?" asked Hrothmar hotly.

"Some things are more important than the truth," said Elvisir, but he looked down as he said it and did not seem to have much conviction.

Hrothmar gazed at him for a moment, struggling against what he knew to be practically a religion to all elves: staying true to the tribe despite the consequences to anyone or anything else. He had been raised to think so too, and now was the first time he had ever questioned it. He had at last come up against something more important.

"That's the last time I ever trust an elf," he said.

He and Halrodil turned and vanished into the darkness.

* * *

* For the rest of this song, see _The Fellowship of the Rings_, Book II, chapter 8

** Hrothmar is not actually of the Avari, since the Wood-elves were Teleri, but the word is a common insult among elves.

*** Findor appears to have a working knowledge of Kung Fu.


	7. Into the Misty Mountains

**Incunabulum 7: Into the Misty Mountains**

Hrothmar and Halrodil, after recovering their confiscated weapons, followed Elvisir's advice and headed northwards to take a circuitous route back to Mirkwood. They went in silence at first for they knew their flight would soon be discovered and, although elves are skilful at evasion, they are just as skilful at detection and pursuit.

At last Halrodil spoke. "Do you really think Thranduil will turn us over to them?" he asked.

Hrothmar had been turning this very question over in his mind. What _would _Thranduil do? What would he or any of the other elves do if they knew the truth about him? He had been locked up in the elvenking's dungeons once or twice for short periods—generally for throwing things at people—and he did not care to make a prolonged stay in the dark grottos. But perhaps an even worse fate would be alotted him.

"_You_ don't have anything to worry about," he said with an attempt to be consoling. "They won't do anything to you; you're innocent."

"So are you."

For a moment Hrothmar hesitated, but fought back the impulse to tell Halrodil.

"You look more innocent," he said.

They had gone perhaps a league further when both of their own accord stopped. Underfoot dry leaves whispered in a light breeze and through the half bare branches of the trees overhead the moon shone down, cold and full. The night seemed full of voices but they were of the sort that only elves can hear.

Halrodil looked from side to side and sniffed. His eyes met Hrothmar's.

"_Yrch!_" he said.

Hrothmar glanced down and saw his hammer, which hung in his belt, glowing at the edges. Without a sound both elves dropped to the ground among the tree roots and dry leaves and lay without moving.

From far off they could hear the sound of their feet coming nearer and nearer. The orcs were coming down from the northern mountains—to join the war, probably. Hrothmar remembered Horthir's warning and wondered that there had been no orc attacks on the camp. It was most likely that the orcs had been as disorganised by the battle as the elves had been.

They lay still and watched as the orc band passed, armour clanking, weapons rattling, here and there a bit of metal glinting in the moonlight. There was no speech, save for a grunt or squeal as someone stumbled or ran up against his neighbour. Hrothmar lay, his face in the leaves, fighting down a nauseating fear and trying to count the orcs that passed with a vague idea of collecting military information. He did not know how it happened or where it came from—the sudden fierce desire to follow the orcs, to know where they went. They passed before him in the moonlight, a dark army, and he suddenly wanted to follow them to the mountains.

He fought it back, knowing it was death to give way to impulse. Somewhere up the line there was a commotion. One of the orcs had stopped and disrupted the ranks.

"What's the hold-up?" shouted the captain, coming down the line.

"There's elves about," hissed the orc who had made the interruption.

Immediately there was an even greater disturbance in the ranks.

"How would you know?" demanded the captain.

"My elf-detector's flashing, that's how. Take a look for yourself."

"Miles away, probably."

"No, close by. Who'll help me look?"

Hrothmar and Halrodil understood none of what was said, but both sensed that they had been detected.

"What shall we do?" asked Halrodil.

Hrothmar made a sudden resolve, influenced strongly by the impulse still fighting within him. "Lie low," he said. "I'll draw them off."

He leaped to his feet and dashed off, sprinting at first to avoid arrows, but soon slowing to a steadier pace. He ran without looking back, and by the sounds behind him, he guessed the orcs were following him. He did not take notice of what direction he was running in and when he broke from the trees he was startled to find the Misty Mountains lying straight before him. He glanced back and saw the orc band in pursuit, spread out to block retreat in that direction. There was nowhere to go but straight before.

He ran on anyway, and something seemed to draw him towards the dim peaks in the distance. They lay white in the moonlight, their summits already snow-sprinkled, and they seemed to promise freedom and safety. Again he looked back, beyond the orcs, to where somewhere in the east lay Mirkwood and home. Resolutely he turned and set his face once more towards the mountains.

Elves can run faster than orcs, when not hampered by men or dwarves, and so Hrothmar's stunt was not really so foolhardy as it may have seemed. In fact it had been pulled often enough by elves before. But the farther Hrothmar ran, the stronger grew the strange urge inside him. He felt as if something were slipping from his grasp and the more he tried to hold onto it the faster it slipped away. The madness of the night of the warg ride was growing on him and he was rapidly becoming what Horthir had called "fey." The idea terrified him and he ran blindly; the only things he could make out clearly were the mountains above.

He had reached the slopes at their base and the ground became rough and full of hidden pitfalls. Swift streams and steep gorges opened up unexpectedly, forcing him to change direction more than once, and ever behind him he could hear the orc horns sounding. The mountains, instead of inviting as they had seemed at first, now appeared determined to swallow him up. He gave one desperate, despairing look over his shoulder, back across the plain he had traversed, and wondered if Halrodil had gotten away all right. Then his foot caught on something; he plunged forward and looked ahead only in time to see the earth fall away beneath him as he tumbled headlong into space. He threw up his arms and gave a cry which echoed through the rocky cliffs, hollow and haunting.

* * *

He lay in dark unconsciousness for what seemed a very long time. But it was really only a quarter of an hour perhaps before the orcs found him and he was roused by their rough hands into a trance-like stupor. He could not understand what they said, nor answer the questions put to him. They slung him on the back of the largest orc and the band set off again, entering by a narrow tunnel into the mountain.

Hrothmar was not certain of anything that was happening until a challenge rang out in the dark tunnel and voices began to speak in the common tongue, customary in orc parlance whenever there were different tribes involved.

"Halt!"

"All right, all right, don't shoot. Which of you fleas is in charge?"

"I am."

"We want to see the Goblin King. Take us there double quick."

There was a patter of bare feet in the passage ahead and the party began to move again. They emerged at last into a chamber of sorts, crowded with orcs, and were led up to a large orc who was seated on a great stone chair.

"What goes on?" he demanded.

"They want the Goblin King," the sentry explained.

"The ghash you do. Didn't you slugs get the news? He was killed over a year ago—by dwarves and a wizard."

"Who's in charge here, then?"

"I'm captain for this sector. What have you got there?"

His eye had fallen on Hrothmar, who had been dumped on the floor upon the orcs' arrival.

"We're reinforcements from the Grey Mountains. We got a prisoner, but he's ours, so keep your hands off."

"All prisoners to be turned over for questioning. Those are orders."

"Whose orders?"

"My orders!"

"You won't touch him. Call yourself a captain? My eye! Take us to your superior, louse. I wasn't born yesterday."

With a howl of rage the orc captain flew upon the leader of the band and a brief spat ensued. After a fair amount of blood had been let, the captain called it off and climbed up onto the back of the stone chair, out of reach of the orc swords.

"All right, I'll prove it," he shouted. "See here."

He tugged on a chain hung round his neck and held up to view a brass button. It was standard rank insignia for all orc chieftains in the Misty Mountains—these buttons had once been general private property, but had inevitably been taken from small orcs by bigger orcs until only the highest officers could boast of possessing one. They wore them on chains forged round their necks and too small to come off except by decapitation (to prevent theft). But of course the badge meant nothing to the foreigners from the north. They seemed agreeable to continuing hostilities and for a while the issue was hotly debated by both sides with swords and pikes.

When at last order was restored (which was not until the Grey Mountain chief was killed), the orcs decided to take a closer look at the prisoner.

"'E's still alive. He'll be some fun."

"I got him," piped up another, "so I get first dibs on his clothes."

"It was me what first knew he was there," said a lean orc, pushing the others out of the way. "Besides, they wouldn't fit you, snaga."

"Shut up," said the captain. "I'll do the deciding as to who gets what. You Grey Mountain leeches had better look sharp or you can all go the way of your chief. Reinforcements aren't so dear that we'll go taking any lip from the likes of you."

With that he began a careful assessment of Hrothmar's person. His weapons were all thrown into a corner, the orcs handling them as if they burned their hands. His clothes were more to their taste, and they would have removed them quickly enough if the captain had not kicked them back.

"What's this?" he asked, jerking a chain from Hrothmar's neck. He fingered Elvisir's good-luck charm and Hrothmar had a moment's remorse when he remembered how unkindly he had parted from his friend. In fact, he was beginning to wish he'd stayed in the cage.

"What is this?" the captain repeated, holding the charm before Hrothmar's eyes. "Speak, centipede, or I'll stick you like a pig."

"It's a charm," said Hrothmar with an effort. His head still swam and his throat was dry.

"A what?"

"A—you know—an amulet sort of thing…it's to ward off evil spirits."

The orcs drew back with exclamations of fear and advised the captain to burn it. But he held it fast with a suspicious expression.

"You're a liar," he said. "I've heard of these sorts of things. They give you special powers or turn you invisible."

"Not that one," said Hrothmar.

"Lies! But we'll get the truf out of you, don't worry. Bring up the rack, lads!"

The orcs hastened (none too reluctantly) to obey while the captain pocketed the charm. Hrothmar's fear at this point was overpowering, his psychopathic fear of orcs mixed with a very natural fear of a painful death. He struggled to speak.

"Wait!" he cried. "Wait! Don't kill me."

"We won't," said the orc captain. "—Not yet, leastways. Not until you tell me what this fancy thingem-bob is for."

The orcs had brought up a horrible-looking apparatus so indicative of gruesome torture that Hrothmar nearly fainted at sight of it.

"No, no," said Hrothmar desperately. "I can help you. I can…I can make things for you."

The orc captain paused in the middle of unclamping the shackles of the machine.

"What kind of things?" he asked.

"Swords," said Hrothmar hastily. "Beautiful…shiny swords—like that one—and knives, too…and armour."

The orcs looked at the glowing weapons in the corner with interest.

"And can you make collars?" asked an orc (iron collars were the most crucial pieces of orc armour). "—Wiv fire writing on them?"

"Hold up," said the captain. "We can't keep him alive. He might escape and tell his stinking elf friends where we are."

Hrothmar saw his chances growing slim again, but the captain had given him an idea.

"Wait," he said. "I can tell you where the elves are camped—and how many there are—everything you want to know."

The captain took a step towards him. "Where?" he asked.

"Promise you won't kill me, first."

For several minutes Hrothmar and the orc captain had a stare down, but at last the orc agreed. It was too tempting an offer.

"All right. Spit it out. But it'd better be the truf, or you're going to wish you'd never been born."

Hrothmar did not know how far he could trust an orc, but it was his only chance, however small. Still he hesitated, for betraying one's kindred was the unpardonable sin for any elf. He seemed to stand on the brink of a pit staring down into the darkness, and for an instant he knew that he did not have to step off the edge.

But the pain of his brother's death came over him in a rush and with it his hatred of Findor and the other Lothlorien elves. Strangely, with his anger was mixed the feeling that had guided him to Dol Guldur—an urge to do something low and nasty. He no longer tried to fight the impulse. It was as if he suddenly slammed the door on his old life and it was an act both satisfying and freeing.*

The orcs, once Hrothmar had told them all he knew, began to arm and sent messengers up and down the various passages to call up the rest of the armies. It was their chance to make a clean sweep and knock out the elven forces that had harried them close to extinction and they did not mean to waste it. Hrothmar was left in a dark corner with two orcs to guard him.

For long hours he lay there, and in the darkness the full meaning of what he had done sank into his mind. Even if the orcs did not kill him he could never go back to live among the elves. He had betrayed his own kinsfolk and the deed could not be kept secret forever—sooner or later the truth would surface in Galadriel's mirror.

A very long time later the orcs returned, bringing tidings of victory. They had not totally defeated the Lothlorien elves, but they had put them to flight and for a time would be safe from elven attack.

"Well, they were right where you said they were," said the captain. "But they were expecting us and we hardly surprised 'em at all. We only killed a handful."

"What about one with blond hair and hollow cheeks?" asked Hrothmar.

"How should I know? They all had blond hair. You told the truf on that score, but you still haven't told me what this shiny stone is for. We've still that account to settle, my lad!"

The orc captain kept his word to the letter and did not kill Hrothmar. But he refused to believe that the charm did not have special powers and so Hrothmar, kicking and pleading, went onto the rack.

Of course there was nothing to tell. Hrothmar's powers of invention were taxed to the utmost, but nothing he said convinced the orcs and his ordeal continued in the deep caverns for many days. Indeed, it was months (for orcs are persistent) before the orc captain was finally persuaded that whatever the stone's powers were, Hrothmar was not aware of them.

And so they put him to work forging orc swords. Kicked and cuffed, he hammered away in the lowest pits with scarcely a rest, until his skin grew grey from the smoke and his eyes grew bleared and red. His hair, which he had always been proud of and had been fond of tying in elven knots for good luck, became thin and fell out. His nails grew long and his hands grew knotted and claw-like.

And so the years passed over him, uncounted beneath the mountain. Hrothmar did not know when the sun rose or when the snows melted from the mountain slopes. He forgot the elven speech, he forgot the ways of elves or the light of the sun, he even forgot his own name. The orcs could not pronounce it. They called him Grobber.

* * *

* This would be a good time to call yourself so you can listen to your "Let It Go" ringtone.


	8. Disturbing Find

**Note: I had so much fun putting Thranduil in this chapter. I've been looking forward to him since starting this story, but couldn't fit him in Book I. He's so very evil and yet kind of epic, too. Saruman is just complete fun-and-games (as is the whole of Book II).**

* * *

**BOOK II: The Making of an Orc**

* * *

**Incunabulum 8: A Disturbing Find**

Elrond paused at the top of the hill of Caras Galadhon to catch his breath, thinking that lifts ought to be installed for first age elves. He looked round him at the sylvan city, noted the improvements made since his last visit, and reflected with satisfaction that Rivendell was still just as up-to-date.

"My lord Elrond," said a Lothlorien elf, approaching at that moment. "Pray allow me to guide you to the conference chamber."

Elrond followed him passively up the seemingly interminable steps of a Mallorn tree. They reached a wide platform at the top and the elven guide departed with a bow. Elrond glanced at the white-clad figure who sat at one end of the platform, combing his straight white hair with two curved fingers.

"Are you prepared yet to tell me the reason for this urgent meeting?" asked Elrond.

"Presently," said Saruman.

"I still see no reason why you could not have made the journey to Rivendell; it would not have been much farther for you, and it would have spared me a lot of trouble."

"Rivendell is out of the way."

"Not for me."

"Besides, they are having one of their general councils* here and you would have had to come anyway, so stop complaining. This is a more central location."

"Central for whom? Rivendell is not a great distance for the others."

"It is for Thranduil, elvenking**," replied a third voice.

Elrond turned, attempting to conceal his annoyance. "The matter must be vital if it drew you out of Mirkwood," he said.

Thranduil had just stepped off the stairs onto the platform. Being the only elvenking in Middle Earth, he tacked on the title as often as possible because he liked to swing his weight around.

"That's right, you old spider," said Saruman, with a revolted glance at Thranduil's favourite crown. "I was afraid you weren't going to crawl out of your hole and show up. Well, we are all here, then."

"What about Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel?" asked Elrond.

"Celeborn?" said Saruman. "Leave that junkie to tend his psychedelic mushrooms. And Lady Galadriel can get live streaming in her mirror if she wants to hear what we have to say. This is an unofficial meeting; I wanted to speak to you two alone."

"Let's get on with it then," said Thranduil.

Saruman took a bundle from beneath his robe and placed it on an ornate table near the middle of the platform. He slowly unwrapped the leather covering and laid to view a crooked sword, curiously inscribed on the blade.

Elrond approached and lifted the sword for closer inspection. "Where did you come by this?" he asked.

"It was found in the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains," Saruman replied. "—In an orc den."

Elrond snatched his hand back, dropping the sword onto the floor with a crash.

"Be careful with that," said Saruman. "It's evidence."

"Evidence for what?" asked Elrond, taking out his handkerchief and applying iodine to his contaminated fingers.

"That is why I called you here. You're the experts—is it elven work?"

"How could it be?" asked Elrond. "It's an orc sword."

"The craftsmanship is beyond any orc," said Saruman. "Rough, true, but it's steel, not iron. These swords are appearing more and more frequently in the possession of the Misty Mountain orcs—and not only swords, but knives and armour as well, of far better quality than orcs can generally get."

"Where do suppose they are coming from?"

"I thought I would ask you that question," said Saruman.

"You suspect an elf made them?" asked Elrond. "Impossible. Never has an elf had dealings with the orcs."

He looked at Thranduil, hoping for corroboration, but Thranduil was staring thoughtfully at Saruman.

"What can this have to do with you, that you came all this way to tell us of it?" he asked.

"I am a friend to the elves," said Saruman. "I thought this matter worthy of your attention."

"It cannot be the work of an elf," Elrond insisted. "Besides, the orcs would never bargain with one of us."

"Strange things sometimes happen," said Saruman, examining his fingernails.

"What do you mean by 'strange things?'" asked Elrond. "If you know more of this than you are letting on, I beg you to reveal it."

"I know nothing beyond what I have told you; I'm quicker at arriving at conclusions, that's all. _I _certainly think it possible that one of your people may have dealings with the orcs. –Perhaps one who vanished into the mountains and whom you thought dead long ago...but never found his body."

"I will look into this matter," said Elrond. "If one of our kind has fallen among the orcs we will not fail to rescue him."

"You can keep that," said Saruman, nodding towards the sword. "I hope it will help you in your quest. And now I had better have a look at the conference schedule. I hope I won't be stuck here very long—I've got a recording date with Manowar next Wednesday."

He rose and, after the usual formalities, departed. When he had gone, Elrond looked again at Thranduil.

"What do you think of what he said?" he asked.

"I wonder what he thought he could get out of us," said Thranduil, donning a pair of latex gloves and picking up the sword from the floor.

"I withstood his accusations for the honour of our race, but he was right, you know. It might be elven work."

"It looks like the work of Hrothmar, son of Hemir," observed Thranduil.

"But he was lost years ago," said Elrond. "—In the orc wars."

"He was killed," said Thranduil.

"Who told you that?"

"One of the Lothloriens. I seem to recall that it was Findor, son of Fingol."

"My son told me otherwise. He said he was never found after the battle."

Elrond took a step towards Thranduil and glared at him earnestly. "You know the Wood-elves better than I," he said; "would he have joined the orcs?"

"No elf would," said Thranduil. "It is not the way of our kind."

"It is not impossible for one of us to fall," said Elrond. "Remember how Maeglin betrayed the hidden city to Morgoth."

"That was only a legend. You never saw it happen and neither did I."

"You do not believe the truth of the old tales?" said Elrond incredulously.

"I believe nothing I have not seen with my own eyes," said Thranduil. "And I have never seen an elf have parlance with the foul race."

"I pray it has not come to pass. But if it has, we must be cautious."

"It must not be known."

"I did not mean that; I meant an elf aiding the orcs could bring great danger. And we are already facing the growing menace in the east."

"It must be looked into, as you said," replied Thranduil, throwing the sword onto the table.

"If only there were a way of knowing the truth at once."

"You might ask Galadriel—she has the mirror."

"Yes, but I don't entirely trust her. Sometimes I think she makes up some of the things she sees in that mirror. You ought to speak to those of your elves who knew Hrothmar—those you trust—and hear what they say of him."

"There is nothing they could tell me," said Thranduil. "And besides, I don't trust any of them."

Elrond sighed. "It is our bane," he said. "Our kind are fated to hold together against the rest of the world and yet never to trust each other. It has been so from the beginning. I do not wish to believe evil of Hrothmar, but the possibility cannot be overlooked. We all walk along a razor-thin edge; only the slightest diversion to the left or the right and we plunge beyond the reach of aid."

"And if we do," said Thranduil, "no aid can avail. Destruction is utter. Do not waste pity on those beyond your effort."

"It may not be," said Elrond. "I cannot be sure of that. In any case, I ask you to make me a promise."

"What is that?" asked Thranduil, raising his eyebrows.

"Should you find the elf—if elf it be—who forged this sword, that you notify me before you make any decision concerning him."

Thranduil returned Elrond's stern gaze negligently. "Certainly," he said. "Other matters consume my time at the present, however, and this mystery may remain unsolved for many years yet."

He gave the sword a last desultory glance and strode across the platform and down the stairs. Elrond watched him go with furrowed brows.

About an hour later Lindir found his employer at the foot of a Mellorn tree and approached with a tentative cough.

"My lord Elrond," he said, "the council-they're waiting for you."

"I told them to start without me," said Elrond. "I'll be up presently."

"Lady Galadriel insists—"

Elrond glared at him so hard that his timorous lieutenant departed without pressing his injunctions. For a time Elrond stood, sunk in thought, until roused at last by an elf appearing behind him.

"Someone said you wanted to see me?"

"Oh, hello, Findor," said Elrond. "I thought you were Thranduil's son at first. Yes, I wanted to speak to you. You perhaps remember the orc wars of the last century?"

Findor made no answer, for he made it a principle never to respond to obvious questions, even to someone of Lord Elrond's status.

"You probably remember a certain Wood-elf," Elrond continued, "—Hrothmar, the elven smith. He was of your company the night of the final attack."

Elrond paused, waiting for confirmation. "Or was he?"

"He was," said Findor.

"But he was not there during the attack?"

Findor was silent for several minutes, staring at Elrond. "What makes you think that?" he asked finally.

"The simple fact that he left the camp that night and was seen running towards the Misty Mountains, and that was the last time he was ever seen…and it was two hours before the attack came."

Elrond delivered this news with a very keen look at Findor. "My son informed me of this," he went on. "What you can tell me of that night will be very valuable."

"He and the other son of Hemir had been placed under arrest for disorderly conduct and escaped," said Findor. "I did not think it wise to pursue them; I thought it unlikely that they would reach Mirkwood with so many orcs about."

"What did he know that you didn't want Thranduil finding out?"

Findor looked frankly surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I may not be able to read minds like your Lady Galadriel," said Elrond, "but I can read motives because they are revealed by actions. He was captured by the orcs, and you said he was dead. Perhaps it would have caused unpleasantness for you if he had been rescued."

"It is not as you think," said Findor. "It was he who had something to hide. I saw him go in secret to the dark tower of sorcery."

Elrond frowned. "What did he do there?"

"I know not, but he was not to be trusted."

"Why did you never tell anyone of this before? This is a serious matter."

"It would have brought calumny upon our race. Besides, there can be no reason to disclose it now. He cannot have long survived capture."

"You know of my wife's ordeal," observed Elrond.

"This is different," said Findor. "It has been more than sixty years since the orcs took him. He has long ago fallen into shadow."

"That is all I wanted to know," said Elrond.

The council ended two days later and the various parties of elves prepared to depart. Elrond approached Thranduil to take his leave, accompanied by Elrohir.

"I remind you of your promise," he said, as goodbyes were exchanged. "My son will accompany you back to Mirkwood so as to bring me word should something turn up."

Thranduil glanced at Elrohir with an inhospitable expression. "You doubt the word of Thranduil, elvenking?" he asked.

Elrond smiled in a conciliating manner. "That's right."

* * *

* See _The Sailing Moon_, by OneSizeFitsAll, chapter 6

** It is actually farther as the Nazgul flies, but the journey is quicker because the elves can travel by boat down the river and have no mountains to cross.


	9. Sign of the White Hand

**Incunabulum 9: The Sign of the White Hand**

Saruman stepped into the lift at Orthanc and pressed the button, chuckling to himself in a sepulchral tone. He shot up to the top storey and entered his room, glancing about as he did so to make sure everything was as he had left it, and humming snatches of one of his hit tunes.

"Ah, my little Palantir," he said, approaching the table on which it rested. "Did you miss me while I was gone?"

He put his hand over the black spheroid and closed his eyes. In a moment the Great Eye was fixed on him.

"Well?"

"I shook them up a good bit," said Saruman with a snigger. "It never entered their heads that one of their number could join the orcs."

"What did you find out?"

"I had the room bugged—a new invention, by the way; remind me to show it to you sometime—and I heard everything they said. They think it's one of Thranduil's people. Just what I would have expected myself, knowing that reprobate. They won't go looking for him, though; they're far too occupied at present. I'll have ample opportunity to find him first."

"Well, hurrah for you," said Sauron drily. "And what happens when you find him?"

"If an elf is working for the orcs, why not for us? He'd be useful here. I could use his genes for my patent-pending uruk-hai."

"I wouldn't advise it. It would only weaken the strain. But I'm working on the Mirkwood problem right now and he might provide useful information. Have him interviewed when he comes in…if you find him, of course, which I think unlikely."

"That just shows how little you know of my uruk-hai," said Saruman loftily.

"Oh, get over yourself," said Sauron.

* * *

It seemed like any ordinary day in the Misty Mountains until the strangers showed up. They arrived about noon—seven hulking figures that looked like something dragged out of a cave troll's den. They all carried old-model orc swords and had white hands plastered on their faces.

"Who's in charge here?" asked the foremost of them, which was always the first question an orc ever asked a stranger.

"I am," said the uruk chief. "What do you creeps want?"

"They want to see the sword-maker," said the snaga sentry who had guided them in.

"Flea! Louse!" cried the captain, taking a swipe at the sentry. "Did you tell them he was here?"

The Misty Mountain orcs had made great profit off of Hrothmar's (or Grobber's) work over the past few decades and they kept his whereabouts a great secret, lest he be stolen by a different tribe.

"We heard it from a dwarf," said the uruk-hai, "but you can't believe a word they tell you, so we came to see for ourselves. They say you have an elf making swords for you."

"And what if we do?" said the captain. "This here is Sunday and we're only open during business hours. You'll have to come back tomorrow if you want any blades."

"We don't want blades; we want to see this elf for ourselves."

"What do you think we run here—a variety show? Move along, you slobs!"

"Ha!" said the lead uruk-hai. "It's just as I thought. You haven't got any elf smith at all. You're making it up."

"That so, eh?" said the captain. "Then where do you think I got this?"

He drew his sword from its scabbard and held it up to the light. It shone with the white of steel and for an instant along the blade's edges ran a glitter as of water in moonlight. The orc captain dropped it back into the shadows but still it could be seen faintly with shapes and shadows moving over it like ripples on a stream. The uruk-hai had to admire it in spite of themselves.

"Well," said the leader, "you might have stolen that."

"The ghash I did! I was the one who got the stinking elf in the first place!" cried the captain. "I know what I'm saying, you muckworts! Do you want to know what this blade feels like, too?"

"Prove it, then," said the uruk-hai, with his arms across his chest.

"I'll prove it all right, slimeface. Just wait!"

He gave a sharp order and several small orcs scurried off down a dark tunnel. They were gone for a long time. When they reappeared they were dragging something by chains—something that seemed very unwilling to follow them into the orc hall. No wonder: Hrothmar's infrequent visits to the upper caves were always enlivened by racks, whips, thumbscrews, and other instruments of torture.

He came out at last, but the uruk-hai found to their disappointment that there was very little to be seen of him. He may have once been well-built for an elf, but he was now skinny even for an orc. Through the various gaps in his grey clothing his bones could be seen with only a thin layer of skin stretched tightly over them.

"This ain't no elf smith," said the uruk-hai leader. "This here's the leftovers from Sunday dinner. You couldn't boil him up and get a pint of broth."

"He can make swords, though," said the captain proudly.

"How much do you want for him?"

"He's not for sale."

The uruk-hai began to list ascending amounts of money, but the orc captain was not to be bought over.

"Listen, he's mine," he said. "Get out."

The uruk-hai were losing patience. "Who's to say he's yours? We've as much right to him as you have. Did you take him prisoner?"

"Yes," said the captain.

"No," said one of the other orcs, then ducked as the captain swiped at him.

"There. You see? You took him, so we can take him."

"Go ahead," said the captain.

The next minute he was very sorry he had said it. The uruk-hai drew their swords and began slashing in all directions and the orcs, though not entirely taken by surprise, were appalled at the skill and energy of these foreign life-forms. All of the Misty Mountain orcs who were not killed retreated shrieking up various tunnels, the captain among them, leaving their slain comrades behind.

"Get up, snaga," said the uruk-hai chief to Hrothmar, digging him with his toe.

Hrothmar got shakily to his feet and looked about him. "I'm not a snaga," he sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm a full-grown uruk."

"Come on," said the uruk-hai. "You're coming with us."

As unpleasant as his life had been in the orc dens, Hrothmar was suddenly afraid to leave it and enter into the strange, big world he had forgotten.

"I don't want to," he said sulkily. "Look what you've done to my friends." He had never thought of them as his friends before, but they had been his only companions for sixty years and he was already beginning to miss them.

"You don't have no friends. Now look sharp, before the rest of the lot come back."

"I won't," said Hrothmar. The uruk-hai made a grab at him but he ducked and, taking his hammer from his belt, he flung it with elven accuracy at the chief's head. To his amazement and dismay it bounced off the uruk-hai's skull without making any visible impression. The chief roared with rage and pounced on him. He grabbed Hrothmar by the neck, raised him above his head, and dashed him down on the floor of the cave.

Hrothmar lay quite still.

"Now look what you've done," said one of the under-uruk-hai. "The boss said he was to be alive and unspoilt. You'll be catching it now."

"He's alive," said the chief, looking uncomfortable.

"Not moving, though. _I'm _not lugging him back."

"He can walk," said the chief, groping with his toe into the small of Hrothmar's back. Hrothmar gave a squirm.

"Get up, you slug," said the chief. "Stop fooling around. Give me any more trouble and you'll wish you'd never been born."

It had not taken Hrothmar long to learn that though orcs employ various invectives, they have only one or two threats. This does not really matter, of course, as the two most common ones fit almost any occasion.

Hrothmar picked himself up out of a pool of his own blood and fingered the broken skin on the side of his head gingerly. It hurt a good deal, but he had grown tough and was able to reflect with satisfaction that he would probably have a beautiful scar there. Like all the other elves, he had always avoided getting scars of any sort and one of his most upsetting acquisitions as an inmate of the orc dens was a growing collection of them. But he had soon learned that orcs view scars much the same way elves view their hair. They were very proud of them and were always on the lookout for a chance to get a really distinguished one. They even made medicines purposely to leave a large brown scar behind. This made the medicines more painful, but the orcs did not mind that.

Another kick to his back convinced Hrothmar that these new masters were to be obeyed. He turned and shuffled after them, still dragging his chains, which the uruk-hai had thought wise to leave on him. They turned down an exit tunnel, chasing a few fugitive orcs before them, and emerged onto the mountainside in the bright light of noon on a sunny day.

"Here, what's up with snaga?" said one of the uruk-hai. Hrothmar was writhing on the ground with his arms over his head.

"I can't go on," he shrieked. "It's too bright. It's too horribly bright."

"Stop that shrieking; you sound like a girl. You'll go on, all right, or I'll stick you like a pig."

"I can't," whimpered Hrothmar, but a hearty jab in his shoulder changed his mind. He got up and stumbled on, one hand over his eyes and the other out in front of him. One of the uruk-hai had got out a whip and began to crack it at intervals behind him. They soon struck a mountain track—they had marked it with a white hand on a tree—and followed it southwards, still unpursued by the other orcs, who couldn't stand the daylight, either.

At sundown they kept on, without any sign of stopping for supper. Hrothmar had been whimpering to himself nearly the whole time—softly at first, so as not to get hit with the whip, but gradually growing louder as he grew more crazed with pain and thirst.

"Steak. Steak. Kidney and steak. Chops, pork, liver and beans. Beef chicken sausage suet…"

"Here, enough of that," said the uruk-hai directly in front of him. "Shut up, you're making me hungry, hear?"

"No stopping tonight," said the leader. "Eat on the road." And he began to pass back hunks of hard, dark bread.

Hrothmar didn't have the jaw muscles to eat it, so he put one end in his mouth and sucked on it until another uruk-hai finished his own and took it from him. His hunger somewhat abated, he noticed that it had grown dark and, now that he could see without squinting, he looked round at the novel immensity surrounding him.

There were strange lights up in the sky, higher up than the ceiling of any cave—little lights that shone and sparkled, but not like the sparks from his forge. Something stirred in the back of his mind. He thought he had seen these lights before somewhere, but he could not remember where or how. In fact, it had been a long time since he had tried to remember anything of his past. All he now knew of his old life was that remembering it brought pain; and so he had tried to forget instead.

But the lights were familiar and not painful. They did not hurt his eyes like the sun. Hrothmar craned his neck to look up at them and fumbled in the recesses of his mind.

"Get a move on, maggot," said the uruk-hai behind him, giving him a shove and a blow from the whip for good measure. Hrothmar stumbled on and the lights were forgotten.

Meanwhile they had entered a dark gulley lined with boulders and were making their way down to the mouth of it. The opening was narrow and flanked by a stunted tree on one side and a huge boulder on the other. Hrothmar, bent nearly double so that his knuckles dragged on the ground, heard a piercing scream, jumped, and looked up just in time to see the Misty Mountain captain leap from the tree straight at the uruk-hai chief. The chief glanced up and swiped at him with his sword, chopping his head off. At almost the same instant they were assailed on all sides by orcs of various sizes all screaming and swinging swords.

The battle was brief and conclusive. The uruk-hai were well-trained and knew about forming ranks and fighting as a unit—something the orcs of the Misty Mountains had never figured out. The unslaughtered orcs soon fled howling back into the mountains, and the uruk-hai sheathed their swords and looked about for Hrothmar.

He was on the ground beside his erstwhile owner, pawing in the dirt feverishly, too intent on his search to heed the shouts of the uruk-hai. At last his groping fingers found what he was looking for and he snatched it up. It was two chains tangled together—on one hung the charm that Elvisir had given him long ago and which the orc captain had kept for years in firm belief of its possessing magical powers. On the other hung the brass button. Hrothmar tugged the button's chain free from the snarl and threw away the charm.

"Get out of that, thief," said the uruk-hai chief, grabbing Hrothmar by what little hair he had left and jerking him away. "If you need anything, Saruman will see you get it—and a lot more, if you don't look sharp. Now march!"


	10. Induction at Isengard

**Incunabulum 10: Induction at Isengard**

Hrothmar trembled as they emerged from Fangorn Forest several days later and were confronted with a dark, towering structure crowned with steep spikes. It was so tall that he nearly fell over backwards when he tried to see the top. It hurt his neck horribly, but at last he caught a glimpse of the high platform that was the roof of the building and standing on it a white figure with a tall staff. A fell voice could be heard on the wind as though coming from far away.

"Aieee—ee—ee—eee…"

"Sounds like the boss is back," said one of the uruk-hai without even bothering to look up.

They strode up to the tower and got into the lift. Hrothmar was nearly sick as the lift shot suddenly upwards, and he flew up and nearly hit his head on the ceiling when it stopped just as suddenly at the top storey.

"Come on," said the uruk-hai chief, giving him a shove. "Stand up straight and behave yourself for the boss."

They entered a round room with a ceiling so high that it was cloaked in darkness. In the middle of the room was a table with the palantir on it. Saruman was just descending the ladder to the roof when they came in.

"Back already?" he asked. "You've done good work. Where is he?"

The uruk-hai gave Hrothmar a second shove which sent him stumbling to the floor at Saruman's feet.

"What is this?" said Saruman, his pleased smile dying in an instant.

"That's him," said the uruk-hai.

Saruman glanced at Hrothmar and then turned on his uruk-hai chief. "Miserable worm!" he shouted. "This is no elf—it's an orc!"

"That's the one they said was making the swords."

"Then you were duped. Fool! You should know better than to believe Misty Mountain scum."

"Does that mean we get to eat him?" asked one of the other uruk-hai.

The chief looked sullen. "He had this on him," he protested, proffering Hrothmar's hammer.

Saruman took the hammer and examined it. It was glowing a strong blue from the proximity of orcs. In fact, it had not ceased to glow since Hrothmar was first captured, and it was by its light that Hrothmar had crafted his swords in the orc dens. Saruman knew enough elvish to decipher the runes on the handle: they translated to "This is not a toy."

"Where did you come from originally?" asked Saruman, turning on Hrothmar. "Mirkwood?"

Hrothmar could not remember and said nothing.

"Speak, cur. Are you an elf?"

Hrothmar had long ago forgotten what he was, but he deduced that if orcs were treated this badly, elves would be treated worse, so scampered backwards crying, "No, no, no!"

"Then where did you get this hammer?"

"It's mine," Hrothmar whimpered.

"He seems to speak truth," said Saruman. Hrothmar squealed and ducked as the wizard darted forward and seized him by the arm. With a long, thin knife Saruman pricked one of Hrothmar's fingers while Hrothmar struggled violently.

"It's orc blood," said Saruman, looking closely at the black stain on his knife. "I'll have to put it under the microscope to be sure, but it's definitely not elf."

"Then do we get him?" asked an uruk-hai. Personally he did not think Hrothmar looked like good eating, but he thought he might make a decent snack.

"Put him with the others," said Saruman.

The uruk-hai retreated back into the lift and descended to ground level, taking Hrothmar with them. At the bottom of the tower he was pushed and cuffed down a ladder leading into a deep pit from whence an orange glow emanated accompanied by a blast of hot air and the sound of hammer blows. The ladder was connected to a second ladder by a rickety platform, with more ladders and platforms beneath and they clambered from one to the next until they had sunk themselves underground by at least two hundred feet.

Hrothmar reached the floor of the pit with relief but scarcely had time to look around him before he was made to march on again. They passed huge, slowly revolving iron wheels and other dangerous machinery, forges where bent swords were being mass-produced, and contraptions that looked like electric dryers from which freshly-assembled uruk-hai emerged periodically. Past all these were pits with heavy iron grills over them through which Hrothmar could see savage wargs snarling and trying to leap out. He shivered with the momentary idea that that was what Saruman had been speaking of when he had said to put him with the others. He was relieved when they passed the warg pits and stopped in front of a high desk with an orc behind it.

"New recruit," said the uruk-hai.

The orc squinted through his glasses at Hrothmar. "Name?" he said.

"Grobber."

"Spell it."

"I don't know how."

"Never mind. I'm putting you down as Etwol. Don't forget it. Next!"

They passed on through a door into a large room, stopping just inside in front of a hulking uruk with a hammer and a chisel, who struck off Hrothmar's shackles. Next the uruk-hai escort thrust Hrothmar into a small cell where he was sprayed with some sort of asphyxiating gas that was supposed to de-louse him, after which disturbing experience, he was marched on a short distance, stuck into a chair, and given a haircut. He scarcely had time to look at the result before the uruk-hai dragged him over to a table with a tray on it with about twenty hypodermic syringes. An orc in a white lab coat pushed Hrothmar into a chair and clamped his arm down on a table. Hrothmar shrieked, but the operation lasted only a few minutes.

"He's covered for Rubella, small pox, measles, TB, dyptheria, polio, and rabies," said the orc. "Oh, and I gave him a Cortizone shot for the swelling."

In the background, Hrothmar gave a scream.

"Shut the trap," said the orc. "That can't possibly be hurting as much as the Cortizone needle."

Hrothmar was getting his tattoo. The orc who was prodding him with a none-too-clean needle was obviously an expert, being covered with various designs himself. When Hrothmar was finally released from the chair, he sported a blue serial number on his wrist.

He got up groggily and nearly collapsed. The uruk-hai escort shoved him into a curtained shower stall and turned on the water with an exterior switch. Hrothmar shrieked as the ice-cold water hit him with the force of a pressure-washer. The shower lasted about two minutes and left him smelling faintly of disinfectant. When it was over, he stood there for several seconds dripping wet and wondering what he was supposed to do, until the uruk-hai chucked a clean shirt and pair of trousers over the curtain and onto his head.

Hrothmar emerged from the shower looking significantly improved and stopped in front of the last orc in the line-up who stood waiting with his hand in a pot of white paint. He looked Hrothmar up and down, grunted in approval, and gave him a slap in the face with the painted hand.

After that the uruk-hai pushed him down a corridor lit by smoking torches and lined with doors with numbers on them.

"There's your room," they said, shoving him inside one of the doors. "The schedule's on the wall. Here's your hammer." It was flung in after him and slid ringing along the floor. The door was slammed and Hrothmar—Etwol was left alone.

* * *

The Great Eye turned with pardonable annoyance upon Isengard. The signals from Saruman's palantir sounded extremely excited and Saruman only ever got excited over a new invention…and Sauron never shared his excitement. Still, allies had to be humoured.

"Well, what is it?" said Sauron.

"I've just made the most incredible discovery," said Saruman, suppressing the excitement in his voice and attempting to sound like he did on his albums. "That elf I was telling you about—I've got him."

"And?"

"And he's not an elf. He's an orc—or at least he looks exactly like one. His skin is grey and his pupils don't dilate well, not to mention the state of his teeth. But I tested a blood sample and what do you suppose I found?"

Sauron waited patiently.

"He _used _to be an elf…and he _turned into an orc!_"

"How?"

"I don't know," said Saruman excitedly, "but the DNA matches up. It must be reproduceable! It could be our answer to the elf problem."

"What did you get out of him about Mirkwood?"

"He doesn't remember a thing," said Saruman. "Totally clueless. There's no telling how long he's been underground."

"Then he's of no use to me," said Sauron conclusively. "Do what you like with him."

"He'll come in very handy here," said Saruman with a smile.

* * *

Saruman's newest recruit soon learned the routine of Isengard. Everyone's day was run according to the number on his wrist—work shifts, meals, showers, bedtime, training—all were posted on an elaborate schedule and everyone knew exactly where he was supposed to be at any given time. When Hrothmar was not called by his number he was called Etwol and he soon got used to the name.

Life at Isengard was not bad, as Etwol quickly discovered. He was given a forge of his own—larger than his old one in the mountains and with all the latest improvements. Once a week he was allowed the luxury of a hot shower. He was fed much better, and was sometimes even given meat. As an elf he had rarely eaten meat, but as his form had changed under the mountains he had slowly acquired the craving for flesh common to all orcs. It was a terrible, gnawing hunger that consumed his thoughts waking or sleeping (he still wasn't sleeping well). Sometimes it grew so strong that he longed to eat his own companions or even, when it was very bad, himself. It could never be satisfied, but it could be ameliorated when meat was on the menu.

There were other perks to being one of Saruman's soldiers, one being a strange white substance that was supposed to make one stronger. The uruk-hai got addicted to it, but Etwol didn't notice much effect from the few times he had taken it; perhaps there was still some elf in him.

But with his hammer in his hand and a stack of orc swords to forge, Etwol didn't need the drug anyway. He was still a slave, perhaps, but it was an entirely different sort of life from what he had lived with the Misty Mountain orcs. The white hand on his face marked him as Saruman's servant, which made him someone important. The first day in his forge he broke the chain on which the button hung and reforged it round his own neck, and with the badge came new confidence. He pulled himself from his usual round-shouldered stoop and stood upright, so that he looked less like a snaga and more like a kebab skewer.

Most elves only have one life that goes on forever. But Etwol was lucky; he had already begun on his third.


	11. Delivery from the Dead Marshes

**Incunabulum 11: Delivery from the Dead Marshes**

Etwol was waiting outside Orthanc in a spot of sunlight when the rider appeared. As a rule, Etwol did not come above ground during the day if he could help it, but he had been summoned by Saruman—a rare occurrence and not a welcome one. He heard the sound of hooves as the rider rode up and the clank as he tied his horse to a ring in the wall.

"Is there a line?" asked the stranger in a thin, rasping voice.

"I've been waiting fifteen minutes," said Etwol. "He says he'll see me when he's finished—wiv what, I don't know."

"Hope it doesn't take too long," said the stranger and joined Etwol on the bench.

"Nice day," he said after a moment.

"I can't see anyfing," said Etwol. "I hate the sun."

"Then why do you sit in it?"

"Because it stole my seat," said Etwol gloomily. Then he added, "Does it look like a nice day?"

"I can't see, either," said the rider. "—Not at noon. I have to wait until the sun casts shadows again."

"Why?"

"I can only see shadows."

Etwol tried to get a better look at his companion but the sun was too bright for his eyes. The man was cloaked in black, but nothing of his face could be seen.

"What are you?" asked Etwol.

"I am a Nazgul. One of the nine."

"Nine what?"

"Ringbearers."

"Ring? What ring?"

"That's classified," said the nazgul shortly. "But I can tell you one thing about it," he went on in a friendlier tone. "I used to have one."

Just then a small orc bearing a bag of mail approached the door and rang the bell. Five hundred feet up Saruman stuck his head out of a window.

"What is it?" he yelled.

"Delivery."

"WHAT? It came?"

The next minute the lift came shooting down. Saruman leaped out and snatched the package from the orc.

"It finally came!" he cried. He rushed off and disappeared into one of the work pits.

Etwol jumped up and followed him, tired of the sunlight and glad for an excuse to go back down into the ground. The nazgul followed. They found Saruman at the bottom examining a collection of coffin-shaped cases. These cases came in every few weeks from the Dead Marshes and were always marked top secret, but the orcs who brought them in did not take care in keeping their mouths shut and everyone knew they contained bodies (the shape gave them away as well).

Etwol watched with a bored expression while Saruman opened one of the cases. A slimy green body climbed out and got dazedly to its feet.

"This one looks good," said Saruman, to a bystanding orc. "A lot better than the last ones you brought me. Whom do you serve?" he asked, turning to the body.

"Zaruman!"

"Good." He turned to the orc again. "Put the lot in my laboratory," he said.

He suddenly saw Etwol and the nazgul standing there.

"This is an off-limits area," he said. "Oh, it's you. I need your cooperation for a minute."

Etwol shifted uncomfortably as he realised Saruman was speaking to him.

"Don't worry, it's nothing difficult. I need a DNA sample for my uruk-hai experiments."

"I don't want to," said Etwol, backing away. "I don't want to become a stinking uruk-hai."

"_You _won't become one. I'll simply clone you. Now, stand still!"

Etwol danced away and Saruman followed him, cursing.

"I don't authorise my genes to be used in scientific experimentation," exclaimed Etwol.

"Too bad," said Saruman. He almost tripped over the nazgul and paused in his pursuit.

"Well, what is it?" he asked. "Did Sauron send you?"

"Yes—but not here. I was just passing by. I was wondering if you could tell me the way to the Shire."

"Shire? What Shire? I've never heard of it. Go look it up on Mapquest."

He made a sudden grab and pulled out some of Etwol's hair.

"Ha ha!"

"Eeek!" shrieked Etwol.

"You still sound like an elf," said Saruman, climbing up one of the ladders. "Turning orc didn't affect your voice, apparently." The nazgul went up after him like a black shadow.

Etwol returned to his forge in depression. He didn't want an uruk-hai running around with his genes in it. On the other hand, he had wanted to be an uruk-hai ever since he first arrived at Isengard, but no matter how much of the strength drug he took he never grew any stronger. He was still as skinny as a wizard's wand.

He was hammering on a breastplate when he heard a commotion in the tunnel outside his door. He went out and found orcs running past as if late to something.

"What in ghash is going on?"

"Roll call, mate!" shouted one of the orcs to him.

"At this time of day?" asked Etwol. He belted on his sword and followed the others.

A large uruk-hai had called the assembly on an orc horn and now stood with a piece of paper in his hand.

"All right, you squibs," he said loudly. "The boss needs another lot of horses. Who's going to Rohan to steal some? I'm taking volunteers."

"Not me!"

"Not me!"

"Shut up, or you'll get picked. Now, let's see a show of hands."

Etwol had been ducking his head as usual to avoid getting picked, but suddenly he thought it would be fun to go to Rohan and steal horses. It would beat lugging wood around in Fangorn which was what he had been "volunteered" to do last time.

"Me! Me!" he shouted, jumping up and down and waving his hand.

"Good. Here's one with a death wish, anyway. I need seventeen more."

The orcs tried to act as if the meeting were over and started to leave, but seventeen unsuccessful shirkers were dragged bodily from the rest and lined up beside Etwol.

"Hurray!" squealed Etwol, drumming on the head of the orc nearest him. "To Rohan, you maggots!"

They marched up the ladders and emerged into daylight, blinking and cursing. Etwol saw the nazgul mounted on his horse once more and preparing to depart.

"Goodbye!" he said. "Are you going to the Shire?"

"If I can find it," said the nazgul. "It's not on my GPS. I'm beginning to think it doesn't exist. Where are you going?"

"To steal horses."

"Well, good luck. Don't die."

Etwol wondered as they marched off why he had said that.

* * *

Meanwhile Saruman had climbed his tower as far as his laboratory and was opening his parcel from the mail carrier. It contained various plastic bags with hair samples inside. Saruman put Etwol's hair into a different bag and added it to the collection. Then he took out his microscope and began to examine his acquisitions.

"Amazing," he murmured.

There was a knock at the door and an orc entered.

"What are you doing here?" asked Saruman angrily. "And where are my zombies?"

"They're on their way up. Please, they're very heavy, sir, and I came up to tell you that the ents are demonstrating again."

"Those tree-huggers! Throw some of my blasting powder at them—that will give them something to demonstrate about."

Saruman turned back to his microscope. In another minute the zombie boxes arrived and several orcs stacked them neatly in a corner.

"All right, get out!" said Saruman. The orcs obeyed.

When he was quite sure that they were gone, he went to the topmost box and opened it.

"Come out of there," he said.

A tall, elven zombie stepped out, rather green from marsh scum, but otherwise unharmed by several thousand years underwater. His hair was a sick-looking red and his skin, under the green, was white with more green underneath. His eyes, when they were open—which was only about half the time—glowed with a ghostly luminescence.

"Zaruman!"

"Get in that tank," said Saruman, indicating a heavy metal box bolted to one wall with the door open and a blue light emanating from within.

The zombie obeyed.

"That's one thing I like about zombies," said Saruman. "They always do as they are told." He closed the door of the tank and flipped a switch on the side. Instantly blue light shone out between the rivets and the tank began to shake and rattle, while electrical currents passed in blue lightning up and down it.

Watching it, Saruman was reminded of Gandalf the Grey's fireworks. He hoped Gandalf would come for a visit soon. He was tired of having no one to talk to but himself, and Gandalf was the only other wizard whose presence he could stand for more than a few minutes. The two Blues were odd even for wizards and Radagast the Brown positively made him sick. In fact, Radagast had come for a visit not long ago and Saruman had had to send him away with a message for Gandalf just to get rid of him. It came of eating mushrooms…

There was a terrible crash and a cloud of smoke erupted from the tank. Saruman cried out and began flipping switches.

"Should have paid attention," he muttered. "If I've fried him…"

* * *

The journey to Rohan was not fun. The uruk-hai captain drove the rest of the orcs at a great pace, and the way was rocky and sometimes very steep. Besides, they always had to be on the look-out for the horse boys, who were not pleasant to meet with. On the third day they came to a promising valley and sent a scout ahead to have a look about.

"There's horses, all right," he said when he returned. "A whole herd of them. But I couldn't get close. They smelled me."

"Etwol can go," said the captain. "He don't smell as bad as the rest of you. Get moving, you!"

He said this with a blow to Etwol's head. Etwol knew better than to argue. He crept down into the valley and cautiously approached the small group of horses, taking care to stay downwind. The horses shifted uneasily and looked about, flicking their ears. They seemed to know that something was up.

From somewhere back in his memory Etwol recalled speaking special words and phrases to calm horses and other animals, but he could not remember any of them now. Instead he began to make queer clicking sounds with his tongue and throat. The horses lifted their heads and looked towards the sound. Then they slowly came towards him. Etwol tensed, ready to spring.

Suddenly there was an awful shout and the horses, spooked, came stampeding towards him. Etwol crouched low and the horses passed on either side of him, scarcely paying him any heed. Close on their heels came a body of Rohirrim, shouting and waving spears. They did not see Etwol either and galloped by, hot on the heels of the stampeding herd.

Etwol straightened slightly when they had passed and looked back to see where they went. They galloped up the slope until they came to the place where the other orcs were hiding. As soon as the horses came close to the orcs, they began to rear up and scream in fright. The orcs leaped from their hiding places and scattered, while the Rohirrim galloped after them, trying to stick them on their spears.

Etwol crawled through the high grass until he came to the hilly slope on the south side of the valley. He scrambled up a rocky gulley and lay hid until the shouts of the Rohirrim died away. Dusk fell and he came cautiously out and began to look for his comrades. When at last he reached the place where he had left them, he found only a smoking bonfire and two small orcs huddled in its warmth.

"They're burnt," they said when they saw Etwol. "We're all that's left."

"They must have known we were here," said Etwol. "The horse boys set a trap for us."

"What do we do now?" said one of the other orcs. "If we go back to Isengard, they'll probably shut us out since we haven't got any horses like Saruman wanted."

"We'll get some, then," said Etwol.

"We can't. There's only free of us, and we haven't got a captain."

"Yes, you do," said Etwol. "I'm your captain now, and you'd better do as I say, or you'll be sorry you were ever born."

"You?"

"Yes, me!" He fingered the button around his neck and snorted in satisfaction. "Now get a move on, slugs!"


	12. Horses for the White Hand

**Incunabulum 12: Horses for the White Hand**

Grima Wormtongue was sitting in his bedroom at Edoras, watching his favourite reality tv show, "Wonderful Wiz," which chronicled the lives of the various wizards of Middle Earth. This episode was about Saruman and Grima did not want to miss it, since he was one of the white wizard's biggest fans.

Saruman was in the middle of explaining one of his inventions and Grima had taken the opportunity to do some texting, when he heard a tapping at his window.

"Go away, Eomer," he said. "Or I'll tell your uncle!"

The tapping continued. Then the window opened a crack and a face peered in.

"What the—" said Grima. "What are you doing here?"

Etwol opened the window farther and climbed in.

"How did you get past security?" asked Grima, glancing at Etwol's orc sword.

"I sneaked past, of course," said Etwol sharply. "You work for Saruman, don't you? Well, he needs horses, and I need your help getting them."

"You're going to steal them from the stables? Right under King Theoden's nose?" asked Grima incredulously. "It'll never work."

"Why not?"

"Because horses always raise a fuss the instant they smell orc."

"They won't smell me. I'll handle the horses. I need you to handle the guards. I can't sneak horses past as easily as I can sneak past myself, after all."

"All right," said Grima, taking out a sheet of paper. "I'll just write up an order for King Theoden to sign telling the guards to let you pass. But you'd better disguise yourself."

He started writing the order, but remembered his show in the middle and noticed that Saruman was demonstrating his powers of throwing people around and suspending them on air. Etwol had to finish writing the order himself.

"Now take it to King Feoden," he said.

"Just a minute," said Grima with his eyes glued to the screen.

"No, right now. I can't sit here all night while you watch crap telly."

"Just let me finish this show."

"But there's still half an hour left, plus commercials. There's no time for that now."

Etwol tugged at Grima's sleeve, but he wouldn't move. Finally Etwol took Grima's phone, turned it on video record, and propped it up so that it was filming the television screen.

"There," he said. "Now come on."

* * *

Saruman entered his round room the next day, switched on his palantir, and took a sheet of paper from his pocket.

"Hello, are you there?" he asked, glancing at his palantir.

"Yes," said Sauron.

"Good. I've a whole list of new breakthroughs to show you. I've been very busy—that's why I haven't called you for a while."

"All right, get on with it," said Sauron impatiently.

"Ahem. The first one is a new sound-projector/intensifier. It can project your voice up to fifty miles." Saruman set up an easel and placed a large sketch book on it. "Here are the diagrams."

"What are you going to do with that?" asked Sauron. "Make a new album?"

"Ooh, what a good idea, but no, that's not why I created it. Conceptually you could create a weapon that would destroy concrete at long range. I've done some experiments with the rough prototype and I can cause an avalanche on Mount Carahdras."

"What good is that?"

"Well, you never know," said Saruman, flipping to the next leaf in his sketch book. "This here is a giant crossbow, capable of shooting a large grappling iron over a wall up to thirty feet high."

"That's not new," said Sauron. "I've seen something similar done. Besides, it's silent, so there's no fear factor."

"Ah, yes," said Saruman, quickly flipping pages. "You'll like this next one. It's fake mithril: pretty good, too—it looks almost exactly like the real thing, only not so tough."

"And what would you use that for?"

"Flood the market," said Saruman. "Destroy the economy. Panic ensues. Soon our enemies will come crawling to us, pleading for crusts of bread."

"Boring," said Sauron. "Predictable. What else do you have?"

"There's just one more thing," said Saruman. "I was fooling around in my spare time and came up with this." He flipped another page. "Musical boots. They play the Lord of the Rings theme over and over and never stop as long as you're wearing them and walking around."

"What's wrong with an eyePod?"

"That's not the idea. These boots are guaranteed to drive anyone crazy after thirty-five minutes of exposure."

"Great. All we needed was a lot of insane orcs on our hands."

"No—the elves! We can sell them to the elves. They fall so easily for gimmicks. That would solve the elf problem, and these boots are extremely cheap to produce."

"That's not bad," said Sauron. "I'll fund that. The Mouth would like it."

"I'll send the plans to my factory and run off ten thousand or so," said Saruman, shutting up his sketchbook."

"Is that it, then?" asked Sauron. "How are the zombies?"

"Disappointing," said Saruman, "but I'm working on something revolutionary in that line. Oh, and there's something else I tried—"

"Well, you're going to have to crank out something better than mere uruk-hai if you're going to take out Rohan. And speaking of which, the orcs you sent there for horses ran into trouble."

"What? How do you know?" asked Saruman.

"Nothing escapes the notice of the Great Eye," said Sauron smugly.

"The Great Eye should mind its own business. I don't need to get news from you—that's what my crows are for." Saruman took his eyePhone from his pocket and held it under the table while he texted Grima.

whats going on over there wheres my orcs

"Well, I just thought you might want to know," said Sauron. "We needed those horses."

"I know," said Saruman, hitting Send. "I'll get the horses, don't worry. And you're distracting me. I was about to tell you about an experiment I did with that elf/orc thingum that I have making swords for me. I finally got around to collecting a hair sample so I could do some genetic engineering with it, but his genes are so scrambled I can't even clone them. He's a biological dead-end."

"I told you it was a waste of time. You wouldn't have been able to make anything useful out of him, anyway."

"That's not the point," protested Saruman. "It wasn't just about the war; it was for the sake of science! Think of the advances that might have been made! Oh, you wouldn't understand."

At that moment his phone gave a "Rah!" which meant that a text had just come in.

"Probably not," said Sauron. "Is that why you sent him on the horse-raid?"

"What?" said Saruman. "He went?" He stared distractedly at his phone's screen.

just saw ur show lol 2cute :)

"Nyeah!" exclaimed Saruman. His thumbs became a blur as he typed rapidly on the screen.

shtu up you bkithering idiot and tel me whats going no

"I didn't send him," said Saruman, hitting Send and hastily putting away the phone. "I still need him."

"Too late for that now."

"Whoever sent him out is going to catch it. And that's something I forgot, by the way. What was one of your nazgul doing here?"

"Who? He was there? When?"

"A day or two ago."

"What did he say?" asked Sauron sharply.

"He was asking for directions—to some place called the Shire."

"Idiot! I told him not to stop anywhere on the way. Just wait until I get my hands on that useless jerk. I wonder which one it was."

"Well, what's so secret about it all?"

"Nothing," said Sauron quickly. "It's no secret."

"You seemed upset."

"Only because my orders were disregarded. There's nothing secret about it—it's simply an economic stimulus project. I'm mapping Middle-Earth."

Another "Rah!" came from Saruman's pocket and he quickly took out his phone.

omg totlly 4got 2 txt u. they were here last night. show drove it out of my head kwim? btw u lost 15 orcs & 1 uruk-hi

"Fifteen?" cried Saruman.

"What?" said Sauron.

"And an uruk-hai? Oh, what? Nothing. I'm just texting."

"Well, I'll hang up, then," said Sauron, relieved about the change of subject.

"Goodbye," said Saruman distractedly.

As soon as his palantir had gone dark, he pressed the button to summon his manager, then got into his lift and dropped to ground level.

"Why on Middle Earth did you send Etwol with the horse thieves?" he asked, when the manager showed up.

"He volunteered," said the manager.

"I don't care. I don't want him taken off forge duty for any reason whatever. I told you that when you sent him to drag wood out of Fangorn."

"I can't help it. I can't tell him from the others."

"What do you think they have serial numbers for?"

Saruman was interrupted by Etwol appearing just then from behind Orthanc. He came up the steps to the front door where Saruman stood.

"There you are!" said Saruman. "Where are the others?"

"They're coming."

"So you left them behind? Ran faster than the rest, did you? Miserable coward! It was probably your fault that the mission failed. Don't think I'll let you get away with it." Saruman suddenly had a thought. "How are you here already if you were in Edoras only last night?"

"I brought the horses," said Etwol.

"What? Impossible!"

Saruman suddenly became aware of the screams of frightened animals coming from the direction of the pits.

"Well," he said awkwardly. "Well, that's good—for you. But you shouldn't have gone in the first place."

"Why not?"

"Because you're too valuable as a smith. That's the only thing you're valuable as," Saruman added with a scornful look at Etwol's skinny figure.

"It's not," said Etwol angrily. "I got the stinking horses from the stinking horse boys, which is better than your uruk-hai did."

"All right," said Saruman, turning to re-enter his tower. "I'll authorise you an extra hour at the rec hall this weekend as a reward. Will that make you happy?"

"No," said Etwol. "I don't want that."

"What do you want, then?"

"I want an army."

Saruman stopped and looked at him for a moment, considering.

"Fine," he said.


	13. Creepy Crepuscule

**Incunabulum 13: A Creepy Crepuscule**

Saruman stood before his electric elf-zombie transformer with his protective eye-gear on and an expectant look on his face. He flipped a switch and the machine rattled, while the usual electrical currents passed over it. He flipped another switch and a mild shriek erupted from the power generator.

"Ha," said Saruman, shutting off the machine. "Let's hope that did the trick."

He pressed a button and the door of the tank slowly opened. A blue light shone out into the room from within.

"Rise, my creation!" commanded Saruman.

The queer figure inside slowly emerged—stiffly, and still shooting out blue lightning at nearby objects. It approached Saruman and slowly lifted its hand in salute.

Saruman walked around the thing, inspecting it. It had been an elf-zombie to begin with, but now its hair was a shade darker, which made it a sort of blackish-red. Its skin was just as white as before, but looked rather as if all the green had been burned out of it by electrical pulses (which it had). Its eyes were no longer comatose, but now had a keen, wolfish look in them and on its back the creature sported two brown bat wings.

"Whom do you serve?" asked Saruman, coming back to his original position just in front of the apparition.

There was a puzzled silence. Then the thing spoke.

"What was I supposed to say again?"

"Saruman!"

"Oh." There was a pause. "Why?"

"Because I command you to!"

"I'd rather not," said the creature, creeping tentatively towards the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Saruman. "I did not give you leave to depart!"

The crepuscule had gotten hold of the doorknob and instantly departed.

"Come back!" shouted Saruman.

From the darkness outside the laboratory door the creature's voice floated back to him.

"Cool. There's an elevator."

"Stay away from that!" said Saruman, dashing frantically out the door. He was only in time to see the lift plummet to ground level. He turned and made for the stairs.

He reached the bottom several minutes later and looked about feverishly for his escaped phantasm. The front door was open, and the creature was nowhere to be seen. Saruman paused to page his manager and then hurried out the door.

Down in his underground factory, Saruman found his manager overseeing the uruk-hai machines. He staggered up to the surprised orc, panting heavily.

"How many of those new prototypes did I tell you to turn out?" he asked.

"A couple thousand."

"Stop all production immediately. I've changed my mind."

"But we've already turned out fifteen."

Saruman thought rapidly. "Collect them all together," he said. "And track down the creep that sneaked out of my laboratory. I'll have to give them a speech and try to contain them for awhile."

We was turning to locate his recording crew when he bumped into Etwol, who was lounging about and watching the uruk-hai machines at work.

"What are you doing here?" asked Saruman. "You should be at your forge. You didn't make your quota yesterday."

"I couldn't help it," said Etwol and then added accusingly, "You promised me I'd get to fight."

"I can't spare you right now. I gave orders for you to teach the other orc smiths how to make swords—if you did that, I might be able to let you have some time off."

"I tried to and the slugs are too stupid to learn."

"Well, that's too bad for you."

Meanwhile the elf-zombie-vampires had assembled, along with the zombies that had not yet been transformed, and stood at attention saluting while Saruman mounted a temporary podium. The escapee had also been apprehended and was marched in by several orcs. Seeing that everyone else's hand was raised, he put his in his pockets.

"You are my fighting zombies and vampires," said Saruman, addressing the microphone. "You serve the White Hand. Do as I bid and you will taste man's blood—and brains," he added with a glance at the zombies. "Disobey me and you are all going to die. I created you and I can stick you back in that tank you came out of. So let's hear it from all of you: whom do you serve?"

There was a confused murmur of voices. The zombies attempted to say, "Zaruman!" but as soon as they opened their mouths they were suppressed by the vampires.

From the back of the room, Saruman's manager tried frantically to get his attention.

"Oh no, I'm late for my palantir call," muttered Saruman. "All right, think about it," he said out loud. "I'll be back soon."

He turned and hurried back to Orthanc. On the palantir, Sauron was waiting and whistling a snatch of song.

"Oh, there you are," he said, seeing Saruman enter. "You said you were going to unveil your newest invention today."

"Yes," said Saruman, hesitating. "Actually, there's been a little glitch in the system. I need a little more time to work out the plans."

"Can I see it?"

"Well—"

Saruman's manager entered and waved to him.

"Just a minute," said Saruman to the palantir.

"The vampires have come round," said the manager, looking pleased. "They're all for you now. They want to show their appreciation."

Saruman went out onto the top of his tower and looked down. Below the vampires had lined up with white hands plastered on their faces. When they caught sight of him they began to chant.

"North, South, East, West, who is the wiz that we like the best? Saruman, Saruman, Sa-ru-man! Hooray!"

Saruman turned red in embarrassment and hastily re-entered his palantir room.

"What was that all about?" asked Sauron.

"Nothing. Nothing. Where were we? Oh, that's right. You can't see the—things yet. They're not finished."

"You don't have a diagram, or anything?" It was not like Saruman to be reluctant to show off his inventions.

"I'll send you a live sample when they're finished," said Saruman hastily. "I have to hang up now. There's a lot to be done to get ready for the war on Rohan."

With that he covered up the palantir and listened anxiously to the shouts and cheers he could still hear coming from outside.

* * *

Elrond's head was ringing from a telepathic call. He knew who it was, because there was only person in Middle Earth who called people up in that manner. One would think that his mother-in-law, Lady Galadriel, wouldn't bother calling him now that her daughter no longer lived in Rivendell—it was awkward, and people thought it odd. Despite Elrond's subtle hints, however, Galadriel was in the habit of calling him often to ask fondly how he and the kids were doing. Elrond always replied that they were doing fine, even if Elladan and Elrohir were travelling through the Paths of the Dead or Arwen was being slowly poisoned by Sauron's evil eye.

"Hello," said Elrond.

A creepy voice on the other end of the line said eerily, "Something festers in the heart of Mirkwood. I feel it in the air."

"The forces of Mordor will probably attack Lothlorien from Dol Guldur," said Elrond patiently. He personally thought Galadriel ought to have figured out that much, even without her mirror.

"No, I'm not talking about Dol Guldur. I sense a grave danger, but further to the north. All is not as it should be."

"Why don't you talk to Thranduil about it?" suggested Elrond, more in hopes of getting her out of his head than with any conviction that she would learn anything from Thranduil.

The voice on the line took on a prophetic quality. "Thranduil knows of the danger, but he is powerless against it. He conceals it."

"How do you know?" asked Elrond suspiciously.

"I don't," admitted Galadriel. "That's just a guess. Shall I go and see?"

Elrond hesitated. "Perhaps you should," he said reluctantly. "It has been a long time since Thranduil communicated with me and Elrohir suspects he's not telling us everything."

"Goodbye," said Galadriel and hung up.

Elrond was relieved that the call had ended, but he felt a trifle guilty setting Galadriel and her mirror on Thranduil who, as far as Elrond knew, had not really done anything wrong. Still, Thranduil could take care of himself, Elrond thought, and so he turned his attention to more important matters—at present the mining of Rivendell and its research facilities, in case he was forced to abandon it.

* * *

It had been a busy winter for Saruman. Not only had he had to create and fit out an army of tens of thousands, but he'd had to deal with ent demonstrations, the freezing of his hydroelectric power generating system, and a surprise visit from Grima Wormtongue. On top of all of that he was kept busy running to answer palantir calls from Sauron, who was always wanting to know everything that was going on.

"This is the second time you've called me in as many weeks," said Saruman to his palantir. "Don't you realise I'm trying to prepare for a war? And the last time you called you made me late for an album signing. Sometimes I think this ally idea is not such a good one."

"Is your army ready?" asked Sauron, unperturbed.

"Well, almost," said Saruman. Grima was looking over his shoulder at the palantir. He thought it was extremely interesting, being only familiar with Skeype.

"What about the zombies and vampires? Are you going to unleash them now or save them for later?"

"To tell the truth," said Saruman (wondering as he said it whether he should), "I'm not going to use them at all. They're too hard to train. The zombies can't think about anything but brains and the vampires have an independent streak—at least when the moon is full. Besides, it's too much work bringing them up from the Dead Marshes. I've lost a lot of orcs that way."

"Hmm," said Sauron. "Pity. It would have been interesting. In fact, it was the one idea you came up with that I really liked. I know—what about sending some of them over to Mordor, since you're not going to use them anyway? Remember, you promised me a live sample."

"I can't just pop them in the mail," protested Saruman. "And I can't spare any orcs just now, either."

"I sent half a dozen snagae over the other day with material for your blasting powder," said Sauron. "You could send the zombies back with them."

"I'd have to send someone along who knows how to handle them," said Saruman. "They can be somewhat unpredictable—that's why I'm not using them in my army."

Grima tugged at his sleeve. "You could send Etwol," he said. "We won't need him."

"Yes, _I_ will," said Saruman. "After I take out Rohan, I'll still have Gondor and the elves to deal with and I'll need more orcs and more swords. –So it's no go," he said, turning back to the palantir.

"I don't care whom you send along or if you send anyone along," said Sauron. "I do want some zombies and vampires, though. I want to use them against the elves—they won't shoot their own people."

"You don't know them," said Saruman darkly.

"I want to try it, anyway. So send them over."

"Too ba—" began Saruman.

"I know," said Sauron, interrupting him. "What about those two halflings?"

"What? What?" asked Saruman, looking around him in overly dramatised bewilderment.

"You know—the halflings that my orcs were supposed to bring to Mordor but your orcs took to Isengard by mistake."

"No they didn't," said Saruman.

"Then what happened to them?"

"I don't know."

"Look," said Sauron. "I can send a nazgul over to fetch the zombies—and the halflings."

"That won't be necessary," said Saruman. "I don't have the halflings and I'll send the zombies as soon as I can arrange an escort."

He hung up hurriedly and proceeded towards the lift with Grima close behind. At ground level he summoned Etwol and the Mordor orcs via a small messenger snaga. They appeared shortly.

"You wanted an army," said Saruman to Etwol. "Here you are. Take what zombies you can find down below along with any vampires you can convince to follow you and go straight to Mordor. This scum will go with you," he added, gesturing towards the Mordorians. "Now get out of my sight."


	14. Shortcut to Mirkwood

**Incunabulum 14: Shortcut to Mirkwood**

Etwol lined up his followers in orderly file and began to inspect them. The Mordor snagae were surly and suspicious, but he was confident of handling them. The zombies would also be easy, and Etwol knew how to get on the vampires' good side, which was all that was needed in handling them. He stepped back in satisfaction and suddenly received a debilitating blow between his shoulders.

"Mind whose toes you step on, slug," said a rough voice. It was an uruk from Mordor who had come up behind him unexpectedly. "Who's in charge of this carrion?"

"I am," said Etwol.

"Well, step down, then. I'm taking over."

"Says who? Where's your orders?"

"Who has to say?" replied the uruk. "I'll say, if that makes any difference. I been stuck in this stinking hole ever since I brought a company of orcs over in January. I ain't staying behind and I ain't going to be under a wireworm like you, neither. So stand down."

"Saruman said I was in charge," Etwol protested.

"Nobody takes orders from Saruman where we're going," said the uruk. "Mordor, mate! It's a different world."

Etwol got in line with the others. There was no use in arguing with an uruk. They had just begun to move towards one of the Isengard exits when a small snaga came running pell-mell after them. He reached them panting and fell into step at the back of the line beside Etwol.

"What are you coming along for?" asked Etwol, recognising the orc as Isengard's official tattoo artist.

"I've got paid time off for the next few weeks while the war is going on in Rohan," he explained. "I'm going home to visit my family in Mordor."

* * *

"We're not trekking straight across Rohan, are we?" asked Etwol, shouting to be heard over the clanking of armour and mutters of "brainz" by the zombies. The zombies were obsessed with brains because Saruman had fried theirs.

"It's a short cut," said the uruk leader, whose name, Etwol had learned, was Bhagszh. "The horse boys won't stop us. They're all headed to Helm's Deep for the big battle."

They were all running as fast as they could get the zombies to go and making fair time, too. Etwol didn't like being out in the open, though. He had never gotten used to open spaces.

"There's somefing coming up ahead!" he shouted.

Bhagszh turned to look back at him.

"What do you mean?" he said. "There's nuffing there."

"Yes, there is." Etwol's eyes may not have been much good in the sunlight, but they were still far better than any orc's. "There's a lot of horse boys coming straight for us."

Now they could all see the dust of the Rohirrims' approach. Bhagszh cursed roundly and swerved to the left.

"Running's no use," shouted Etwol, who, along with his keen vision, had not lost the elven delight in stating the obvious. "They'll ride us all down. We're frew."

The Rohirrim had by now caught sight of the invaders and immediately gave chase. The snagae began to slow down because they looked so often over their shoulders. The zombies slowed up, too, in hopes of brains. The vampires stretched their wings and began to fly ahead, shouting discouraging predictions back to their erstwhile companions.

"Get a move on!" shouted Bhagszh, taking out a whip (uruks always carried them) and beginning to flog the hindermost. Etwol had no whip, but gave the best encouragement he could with his hands and feet. Uruks are extremely brave for, although they are always ready to let a snaga get killed instead of themselves, they nearly always bring up the rear whenever there is danger about.

The Rohirrim were coming closer, waving their spears and shouting. The thunder of their horses' hooves shook the ground beneath the fleeing orcs. Etwol gave a kick to a slow snaga and cursed, fumbling at his belt for his hammer. He looked back.

Just then, something very strange happened. From the south came a small white figure, flying over the grass like a white seabird or a delinquent star. It came closer and Etwol saw that it was a white rider on a white horse waving a long white staff and shouting—or at least his mouth was moving, but Etwol could not hear him over the sound of the horses' hooves.

The Rohirrim slowed as the rider approached them, while the orcs continued to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers. Etwol ran looking back and saw the white rider speaking to the Rohirrim and waving his hands towards the south excitedly. The leader of the Rohirrim pointed in Etwol's direction and seemed to be asking if he couldn't destroy those pesky orcs first and then go do what the rider was telling him to. The white rider shook his head and with a disappointed air, the Rohirrim turned and followed him southwards.

The orcs, however, did not slacken their pace. Who knew if the horse boys would change their minds, or if there weren't more of them about. Best to get clear of Rohan as soon as possible. They ran on and on. At last Etwol shouted again.

"There's somefing ahead—trees this time!"

Bhagszh slowed down and stopped plying his whip. He wiped a very damp brow and looked at the formidable forest ahead.

" 'S'Fangorn," he said (he was tired, so his speech came thickly). "Must be. 'S'all right, though. All we got to do is turn east. Then we can head straight acrost the brownlands to the Black Gate. Better that way, anyway, because we don't have to cross the Emyn Muil."

"Fought you said this was a short cut," said Etwol.

"It is," said Bhagszh. "We'll get there faster, if we do have a bit further to go. Now get a move on!"

They set off once more. There was no sign of Rohirrim or any other pursuit.

* * *

"This is the fird river we've crossed," said Etwol, struggling through a deep place and catching hold of the tattoo artist just as he was about to be carried downstream. "There's only supposed to be two rivers. We're going the wrong way."

"No, we ain't," said Bhagszh. "We ain't, and we ain't going to be. I know the way to Mordor—been over it scores o' times. _You've _never been, have you?"

"No."

"Then shut your trap, carrion beetle, and don't let me hear no more from you."

They waded out of the river, the tattoo snaga removing his breastplate to allow about a gallon of water to escape. His name was Ghashbug—that was not his real name, but that was what everyone called him. They called him that because he _was_ a ghashbug: he was always smoking cheap pipeweed cigarettes and leaving the butt-ends about.

They had travelled through the night without a break and it was by now nearly dawn. The vampires were saying that it was bedtime and that they wanted to see the schedule. Bhagszh was being short with everybody because he was beginning to be a bit worried that they really were going the wrong way. Everyone was glad when he called a halt and allowed them to light a fire to dry their clothes.

"I fink we need to bear more to the right," said Etwol, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire and tossing bits of dry grass into the flames.

"Shut up," said Bhagszh. "I told you, you never been here afore."

"They have," said Etwol, pointing to the zombies and vampires.

The two classes looked shy and said nothing.

"Well?" said Bhagszh.

"I don't remember zat," said a zombie.

"We got totally fried," said a vampire. "We don't remember a thing."

The Mordor snagae had never been over that area either because they had come to Isengard via the Cirith Ungol route, and Ghashbug hadn't because he had always been too busy tattooing to be sent to collect zombies from the Dead Marshes.

"So it's just me, then," said Bhagszh. "So no more complaining about where we go."

The company fell silent and began to eat their rations. Suddenly Bhagszh glanced up.

"Where'd that carrion go?" he asked.

"What?" said Etwol. "The zombies?"

"Yeh. There were a score or so, weren't there? Well, there's some missing."

"Probably went to look for brains," said Etwol.

"Well, you're the one what was sent to look after them, right?" said Bhagszh. "So go look for 'em."

Etwol got up reluctantly and struck off into the darkness. It would be daylight soon and he didn't want to be caught by something, away off by himself with no one to save him. He put away this idea resolutely and concentrated all his efforts on listening for gutteral murmurs.

He found the zombies soon enough. They had gone back to the riverbank and it was soon evident why: at the same time Etwol saw their dark forms stumbling along up ahead, he saw also the gleam of a campfire and heard low voices talking. He hurried forward, hoping to waylay the zombies before they were discovered, but he soon realised that it was useless. He stopped and stood still, watching in helpless horror as the scene unfolded.

The two men crouched by the fire were not at first aware that their doom was approaching. One of them was talking and unconsciously raised his voice slightly.

"I didn't say that. I said eating vegetables would make you _grow_. I did not say grow _up._ I know what I said. _You_ don't—what is happening?"

He had broken off the conversation to remark thus on the appearance of five elven zombies. As bad as they looked in the daylight, they were positively petrifying when seen by the low glare of a campfire, especially when you had thought you were alone. The two men leaped to their feet with synchronised shrieks.

"Brainz," said the zombies.

"Back! Stay back! Don't come any closer!" Thus said the two at bay, with swords held out at arm's length before them and faces exceedingly pale.

"They're unarmed," remarked one of the men.

"Probably some elven trick. Quick! Let's tie them up and see what we can get them to tell us."

Throwing down their swords, the two men grabbed the zombies and had them trussed in a trice.

"Tell us what you know!" screamed one of the men.

"Tell us now!" screamed the other.

They began to hit and kick the unhappy zombies, who were unable to do anything more than mutter, "Nozing."

"I got it," said one of the men. "Let's suspend them over the campfire and roast them slowly."

"Do elves roast?" asked the other.

"Let's try it and see!"

"No," said the other decidedly. "Avariel will never like me if I roast elves."

"Aw, she won't find out," said the first.

There was a rustle in the grass and the ropes began to fall off the zombies. The two men watched in consternation.

"How are they doing that?" asked one of the men. The other darted forward and pounced on a dark shape trying to conceal itself behind the zombies. A loud squeal erupted and the man returned, dragging Etwol by one ear.

"Here's better sport than dead elves," said the man. "It's an orc. Let's make it tell us something."

"No, kill it right away. I like killing orcs."

"But it might be able to tell us something." The man had by now tied Etwol's hands securely behind his back. With a blow to the side of his head, he sent Etwol tumbling across the campsite. Etwol shrieked in pain.

"What are you doing here?" asked the man who had hit him. "Why are you trying to help elves? Do you want to eat them?"

"No," said Etwol. Then, remembering what the men had said, added, "Do you?"

"Yuck!" said the skinnier of the two men, turning green.

"Well, he speaks the common tongue," said the other man. "We ought to be able to get something out of him." He turned to Etwol again. "Tell us where the others are!" he shouted, kicking Etwol back across the camp to his original position. Etwol howled and writhed.

"You kick him for a while," said the interrogator to his skinny companion. "I'm tired."

"Hey, what happened to the creepy dead elves?" was the reply. "They're gone!"

The zombies had slipped away. Etwol hoped they had sense enough to find the rest of the party. He tugged at the cords on his hands and scrabbled in the dirt for a sharp stone to cut them on.

"I'll go look for them," said the less skinny of the two. "You watch _it_."

"Can I kill it?"

"Not until I get back. I may think of some more questions to ask it."

He went off and the other man sat down by the campfire and began to sharpen his sword. Both of the men were skinny and scruffy, but this one was the skinnier and scruffier of the two. The other man had worn green and brown, as far as could be discerned in the dark, but this man wore black and brown. He looked at Etwol with an interested expression.

"I'm not going to kick you," he said, "because I'm too tired. But if you feel like telling me anything, I'm not too tired to listen."

"Are you going to eat me?" asked Etwol, mesmerised by the shiny sword the man was sharpening.

"That's disgusting," said the man, looking disgusted. "Nobody eats orcs, and anyways, I'm a vegan, which means I don't eat meat." He was always having to explain what a vegan was because as far as he knew, he was the only one in Middle Earth.

"Why not?" asked Etwol.

"Well," said the man slowly, "I like a beautiful elven maiden, and I was hoping being a vegan would impress her. Just being a ranger didn't work. But then that might be because there are so many rangers around here. My friend is a ranger, too, but I'm a ranger of the North and he's a ranger of Ithilien. That's why he likes interrogating things. I just like killing them."

Etwol had got the edge of his breastplate between the cords on his hands and had nearly sawed them through. If he could just keep this ranger talking for a minute longer, he would be free. He tried to think of something to talk to a man about, but nothing came to mind.

The ranger stirred a pot that he had forgotten to put on the fire. "Hmm, they look ready," he said. He looked at Etwol. "Would you like some boiled greens?"

Etwol looked at the pot and gave the ranger a glance of revulsion.

"It's really not that bad," said the ranger.

Suddenly the other ranger appeared, running very fast and out of breath.

"There's a whole nest of them—orcs and—and I don't know what," he gasped. "They're coming this way…"

With a herculean effort, Etwol burst his bonds apart and leaping to his feet, darted off into the shadows. The men shouted, but he had a good head start, and they didn't want to run into the rest of the orcs. Glancing back once, Etwol saw the ranger of Ithilien bend his bow and shoot a flaming arrow into the air. It flew up, blazing a deep red, and slowly described an arc in the greying dawn sky.

Etwol was still watching it with his neck twisted around when he was brought up short in his headlong flight by charging straight into Bhagszh, who was at the head of the rest of the party.

"There you are, come on!" said Bhagszh.

The whole company turned and ran. The sun was just beginning to rise and it was on their left, which meant that they were heading north. They were running straight towards a dark line of trees.

Etwol was having a nasty sort of feeling—something like _deja vous_. He didn't want to enter the forest they were approaching, but he could hear, and so could the others, the sounds of pursuit behind them. Apparently the rangers had reinforcements. The next moment the orcs were breaking through the underbrush at the edge of the forest and plunging into the shadows under the trees. They ran until the forest's edge could no longer be seen; then they paused to catch their breath and count heads.

"We're definitely going the wrong way," said Etwol. "We're in Mirkwood."


	15. The Eye Is Surprised

**Incunabulum 15: The Eye Is Surprised**

"How do you know it's Mirkwood?" asked Bhagszh testily.

"It's got to be. That's the only forest around here. Unless it's Fangorn."

Bhagszh gave in. He didn't want to admit that he had led them in a circle.

"All right, then all we have to do is go south."

"Right," said Etwol. "Only, which way is souf? You don't know, do you? Not to mention the rangers—they'll find us the minute we poke our noses out."

"It's your fault they found us," said Bhagszh. "You should've been watching them zombies."

"For the matter of that, _you_ should've been. You said you were in charge."

"Garn!" said Bhagszh and made a swipe at Etwol.

"The point is," piped up a snaga, "what do we do _now_?"

"Right," said Etwol. "This is Mirkwood, you know. It's crawling with elves."

All the orcs looked about fearfully at this statement. Even Bhagszh looked uneasy. There was nothing an orc hated and feared more than an elf. A man might not kill an orc on a whim, or he might miss; but elves killed orcs with what amounted to a religious fanaticism…and they never missed. Orcs and elves might have looked very different, but deep down they were too similar to tolerate each other.

"Elves don't come south of Dol Guldur," said Bhagszh, trying to sound reassuring. "They keep away now that Khamul is running the place."

One of the snaga, who had been fumbling in his pockets a moment before, now gave a squeal and held up a square object with a small blinking light on it.

"My elf detector," he said. It was all the explanation needed. With various shrieks the whole party turned and ran in a direction they hoped was south.

* * *

Lord Elrond dumped his suitcase out on his bed and began to repack it. Lindir had predictably forgotten the most essential items, like socks and electric razor, while packing four or five pairs of clothes too many. Packing did not rank among Lindir's few accomplishments and Elrond's OCD wouldn't let him travel comfortably unless he packed his luggage himself, anyway. His motto was, "If you want a thing done right, do it yourself," which was also the reason why he was going on this errand in the first place, instead of sending Arwen.

He was delivering Narsil, which the elven smiths had just finished reforging, to Aragorn, who would need it in the approaching battle. The job necessitated a long and hazardous journey, but Elrond felt the need of exercise and there was no one to talk to in Rivendell anyway, now that most of the elves had left for Valinor. Arwen was still there, but she was too sick to do much of anything.

Elrond had just gotten Narsil to fit on top of the clothes in his repacked suitcase when his telepathic device began to ring inside his head. Galadriel had seemed to think recently that it was necessary to call even more often than she had before. He had been slightly flattered, of course, when she had called to ask his advice about sending elven archers to Helm's Deep, but had been annoyed to reflect that she would probably have sent them anyway, whether he had advised her to or not.

"I hope it's urgent," he said. "I'm just leaving."

"It is urgent," said Galadriel. "I need to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Remember that project you were working on in your research facilities? The one for cognitive recalibration?"

"You mean the one where I tried to turn orcs into less harmful life forms? That's dished. It never got out of the planning stage."

"Why not?"

"Because—predictably—I couldn't get any orcs to test it on. For some strange reason they seemed reluctant to be turned into something harmless."

"You advertised, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course. Actually, to be quite fair, one or two orcs did come in response to the advertisements, but my sentries didn't get the memo and shot them."

"So you're giving up on that project?"

"I gave up on it months ago. I never really believed it would work, anyway."

"Well, I want you to start researching it again. It has potential."

Elrond snapped the clasps shut on his suitcase and hoisted it off the bed.

"Do you realise," he said, striding towards the door, "that we're about to be at war? Technically we're at war already. The Dark Lord is mustering his forces and may strike at any moment. All research of secondary importance has been put on hold for the time being."

"This isn't of secondary importance," said Galadriel.

"Even if we could get it to work, it would take time to inoculate each orc." Elrond was now striding down the long hallway towards the stairs. "We can't possibly make even a dent in Sauron's forces before the blow comes. We have to depend on Aragorn and the Dead Army."

"I wasn't thinking about the battle at all," said Galadriel. "This is a more personal issue."

"All personal issues must be put aside for the present," said Elrond. "I'm almost to the courtyard. I have to hang up now. Good bye!"

"I know what will change your mind," said Galadriel, after a short pause. There was a click at the other end of the line.

Elrond mounted his horse with some misgivings. He did not understand his mother-in-law's last sentence, but he knew she could be extremely manipulative—in other ways than hypnotism.

* * *

Etwol paused in his headlong flight to wipe the perspiration out of his eyes and wait for the others to catch up. The snaga's elf-detector had not been wrong. He could smell the elves now. They were getting closer.

Bhagszh came crashing through the dead brambles behind him and stopped as well, taking a rapid survey of their surroundings.

"Did we lose anybody?" asked Etwol.

"Not as yet, but those zombies can't keep up."

The rest of the group was now stumbling into the small clearing where Etwol stood. The zombies did not look particularly fagged, but they had not been running very fast. Now that the first panic was over Bhagszh began to take a more orderly approach to their retreat.

"The sun's coming up over there," he said. "So we ought to be going just a little to the right of it. That'll bring us soufeast to the Black Gate. Come on, let's get a move on!"

They started off again, with Bhagszh plying the whip behind them. Etwol had never known that Middle Earth was such a dangerous place for an orc. It seemed as if he had not stopped running since leaving Isengard. He looked back.

In that instant a strange feeling came over him, as if his life had suddenly been telescoped. He saw the forest behind him, grey in the dawn light and leafless, and it was as if the image had been laid over some other image imprinted in his mind long ago. He had been here before. Suddenly he knew where he was.

"Stop!" he cried, turning to look for the others. "Stop! We're going the wrong way!"

Bhagszh struck him a blow with the whip. "Get moving!" he said.

"Not this way!" said Etwol. But it was too late.

They had come up to the foot of a high rock wall, hung with mosses and dead vines, about fifty feet high and too steep to climb with any rapidity.

"We'll make lovely targets up there, mate," said Ghashbug, blinking.

"There's got to be some way round it," said Bhagszh.

Nobody looked for one, though. They all looked behind them in terror for the silently approaching elves. They couldn't hear anything, but they could smell elf on the air. It smelled like hairspray.

Etwol's mind was clicking. There was something familiar about this place, and what was more, there was some way through it. He had once known many secret paths through the forest—he knew there was a gate to one somewhere close by. He turned to examine the rock wall, and his eyes ran rapidly over it, probing for something half-forgotten.

There it was: a small keypad partially concealed behind a stone. Etwol pulled the stone out of the way and punched in some numbers. There was a a creaking and grinding noise and then an opening about three feet high appeared in the cliff face.

" 'Ow did you do that?" asked Ghashbug.

"I remembered the combination," said Etwol. "Come on, get inside."

"Wait a minute," said Bhagszh. "We ain't going in there wivout a looksee first. Could be a trap."

"It's no trap," said Etwol. "And if we stay here, this'll be a trap. Get in, I say!"

"I'm in charge here, maggot," said Bhagszh.

Etwol whipped his hammer from his belt and brought it down on Bhagszh's head. "No, you're not," he said.

Bhagszh was not an uruk-hai. He crumpled up in a lump on the ground, twitching slightly.

"Come on!" said Etwol. Nobody dared say no. With a rush they tumbled into the tunnel and the door closed behind them.

It was just in time, too, for as Etwol paused for a moment inside, he could hear voices on the other side of the door. They were speaking in horrible elven speech, but somehow he could understand much of what they were saying.

"I thought there were more, for some reason."

"There were. Where are they?"

"They cannot have returned without us seeing them, and there is no escape from here save by the secret paths."

"We had better take that one back."

"It is dead."

"What of that? Orders must be obeyed. Come."

Etwol scrambled after the others, trembling as he went. For a long time they went in darkness, but of course they preferred the dark and found it comfortable. At last they came up against another wall and, groping along it, Etwol found a second keypad. He punched in another set of numbers and with more creaking and falling of loose earth, the wall opened and they were out in the light again. They were on the border of Mirkwood.

* * *

It was Sauron's last chance to talk to Saruman in the palantir, as it turned out, but he did not know this at the time. Saruman sounded rather distracted and couldn't seem to understand why Sauron wanted to talk about trivial matters like the zombie shipment when the wizard had a major battle on his hands.

"I don't care what happens at Helm's Deep," said Sauron. "Either way, Rohan will be tied up for awhile. Right now I'm thinking of Mirkwood."

"Good," said Saruman. "Why don't you go take care of it, then? I've got angry ents outside."

"I'm calling about your elf."

"My _what_?"

"I mean your orc. The one that used to be an elf. I forget his name. I know now why you didn't want to send him. Don't you think I notice what goes on?"

Saruman was now more attentive.

"You mean you want to keep him?" he asked. "But I want him back."

"Naturally you do. You want him for your own purposes when you've finished Rohan. You want to attack Mirkwood yourself, probably."

"What are you talking about?" said Saruman. "At the rate things are going, I'll need another army before I can attack Mirkwood."

"Or a secret weapon."

"What?"

"Why did you tell me you got nothing out of him about Mirkwood? What did you think you'd gain by concealing his knowledge from me?"

"What knowledge?"

"He led the group you sent through Mirkwood using the secret elven paths."

Saruman looked innocently amazed.

"He did? How did he do that? Are you sure?"

"Don't play games with me," said Sauron crossly. "If you think you're busy with one little battle, how busy do you think I am with a whole war to plan? I didn't call you up to chat. I want to know what else you're hiding from me."

"Nothing," said Saruman, a trifle too quickly.

"No halflings?"

Saruman turned out his pockets. "Not a thing."

"I hope not—for your sake. Remember, I have ways of learning what I want to know. In any case, I'm going to keep that orc for the Mirkwood offensive. You won't need him back before then, so you'll have nothing to complain about."

"All right, if you insist," said Saruman reluctantly. "But being the loyal ally that I am I'll give you a word of caution. I've never used that orc for fighting because I've never trusted him. He was an elf once, and that kind simply can't be trusted. They may turn on you unexpectedly."

"So might any orc. I can handle him."

"You don't know the elves as I do," said Saruman. "They hang together despite anything. True, they quarrel and bicker among themselves, but against an outside force they will fight to the death for the clan."

"What makes you the expert on elves? I'm older than you. I saw Feanor fall and the fall of Beleriand."

"I know quite a bit about elves," said Saruman haughtily. "And Valar, too. It may have slipped your mind, but I originally came from Valinor. You can torture him out of all semblance of an elf, but he is still an elf underneath it all and you'll never change that."

"You're still so pathetically one of them," said Sauron. "You haven't learned yet that _anything_ can be turned. –And the stronger it is to begin with, the better."

"Do as you please, then," said Saruman. "I wash my hands of the whole affair."

The palantir went dark.


	16. Behind the Eye

**Note: Thank you, thank you, 2FriedmanFreak and TheBigOne, for reviewing. Reviews are so very nice. I'm now on the third and last book in this story—three is such a nice, round number isn't it?—and am feeling a certain amount of accomplishment.**

* * *

**BOOK III: Irreversible**

* * *

**Incunabulum 16: Behind the Eye**

The whole party tumbled out of Mirkwood and found themselves staring down the long road through the Brown lands.

"Here, let's see that elf-detector," said Etwol. The snaga handed it over and they could all see that the red light was no longer blinking.*

"Where'd you find it?" asked Etwol. "It's nice."

"I got it from a dwarf," said the snaga. "Lots of them carry elf-detectors."

Etwol tossed it back and glanced over his small following. "All right, you slugs," he said. "We move fast, we might make Mordor by nightfall."

"We can't go on wivout a blessed rest," said a snaga.

"We're starving," announced a vampire. "We gotta eat something."

Etwol looked apprehensively at the zombies who looked as if they were about to start in on their "Brainz" routine.

"We can't stop here," he said firmly. "We get clear of Mirkwood and we can take a rest. No food until we get to Mordor, though, and that's final. Now get moving and no slouching."

Etwol's estimate was optimistic. Had he been travelling by himself he would have easily reached Mordor by sundown and with only the snagae he might have made it before it was extremely dark, but the zombies could not be hurried and even the vampires, who were usually the fastest, were dragging. The sun was high in the sky on the following day before they reached the frowning battlements of the Black Gate.

They came up, dusty and hot, through the slag heaps before the gate. The snagae were wheezing hoarsely and the zombies groaned from time to time. The vampires were trying to sing a marching song, though unfortunately they had not chosen a good one for marching to.

"Bahdedum bahdedum doodoodoodoo…for a thousand years…doodee doodee doo…"

It was actually slowing them down.

Etwol gazed in fascination at the great gate. For several years now he had cherished hopes of someday going to Mordor. For an orc, Mordor was the land of promise and opportunity. Of course the reality was not so bright when once you got there, as Ghashbug could attest, but Etwol had never been there.

There was a door bell to one side of the gate and an intercom. Etwol went boldly up and punched the bell ringer and a deep hollow note sounded from somewhere on the far side of the wall. Above his head a security camera swiveled around to focus on him.

"What do you want?" said a voice from the intercom, cutting through a lot of static.

"We want to come in."

"Who's we?"

"Two orcs of the White Hand, some Red Eye snagae, a bunch of elven zombies, and some new hybrid vampires." Etwol ticked the list off on his fingers and noticed that his nails needed cutting.

"Were you expected?"

Etwol paused. He had no idea whether Saruman had orders to send them or if he was making Sauron a surprise birthday present. It was the first time Etwol had considered it at all and he began to wonder what would happen to them if the present were unwelcome.

"I fink so," he stammered at last.

"I'll have to ring up the Great Eye. We can't have just anyone waltzing in here, you know."

There was a long pause and then, without any warning, a horn sounded somewhere and the great gate began to slowly open. It opened only just enough for Etwol and the others to file through one after the other and then it closed again.

Now that he was inside the wall, Etwol noticed how steep the mountains were that ringed Mordor. It looked like a giant trap of some kind, as if keeping things in were as important to the Eye as keeping things out. He had scarcely had time to look about him though when a troop of uruks appeared and conveyed them off to a processing station.

The station was a low, barrack-like building with bars in the window. By the door stood a more than ordinarily ugly uruk, both beefy and bald, with his arms crossed.

"Ha! Here's the special shipment we was to watch for, I presume," he said, examining the zombies with interest. "Whom do you serve, maggots?"

"Zauron!" said the zombies.

"Well, they reprogrammed you already," he remarked in surprise. "That's handy."

"They didn't, neither," said Etwol. "These are smart zombies, that's all."

"Shut your trap and step inside!" said the orc. "Or I'll report you."

This was a new threat used exclusively in Mordor, although the Mordorians depended heavily on the two old standbys as well.

Etwol and his following was divided up, much to his consternation. He had for a short while been boss; now he was nobody again. But he had hopes of impressing the Great Eye and getting put in charge of an army. The zombies and vampires were put in a corner by themselves, the Mordor snagae were marched off to some other station, Ghashbug was given a pass and allowed to visit his family, and Etwol was stuck in a waiting room with a magazine.

He was very annoyed at being treated this way. He was already wanting to go back to Isengard. Mordor was no fun. After a lapse of ten minutes an orc entered and called his name (although he was the only one in the room).

"You're Saruman's orc?" he asked. Etwol pointed to the white hand on his face. "I mean, you're the one what just came with the delivery?"

"Yeh," said Etwol.

"Come on, then. The Great Eye wants to see you."

The orc led Etwol out of the building, down a short pathway to a long, wide road. As far as Etwol could see the road snaked back and forth across the plains of Mordor and the whole length of it was choked with traffic of all kinds—foot soldiers, wagons, fell beasts, Haradrim, gruesome siege engines—everything required for massive and total war.

Etwol followed the orc onto the road, doing his best to dodge between the traffic without losing sight of his guide. Finally they came to a less crowded portion of the thoroughfare and were able to run side by side. To the south, near the centre of the plain, lay the huge bulk of Mount Orodruin, trails of lava glowing like red veins on its sides and from its crater a tawny and voluminous cloud of hazardous material pouring endlessly.

"He needs an emissions inspection," said Etwol.

"The only inspection done here is by the Great Eye," said the other orc. "And soon that will be the way it is everywhere."

The road turned round a bend and up ahead Etwol saw the tower of Barad-dur with the Great Eye up on top, turning its gaze this way and that, as if searching frantically for something it had lost. Etwol followed the orc up to the door of the tower, the orc rang a bell, and the door swung open.

"Goodbye," said the orc and ran away rather faster than he had come.

Etwol stepped into the tower and looked about. Torches hung on the walls, shedding an amber radiance on the red carpet on the floor. Between the torches hung modern art paintings and black and white photographs of famous landmarks. An orc sat behind a walnut desk, busy writing something on a clipboard. He looked up at Etwol's entrance and pointed to the back of the room.

"The lift's over there," he said.

Etwol stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the top floor, gritting his teeth and preparing himself for the sudden ascent that he was used to with Saruman's lift. But the lift began to rise slowly and gently and climbed the tower without causing any great disturbance to Etwol's internal organs.

At the top Etwol stepped out into a waiting room of sorts. Over on a bench by one wall sat Grima Wormtongue, looking hunched up and unhappy, while nearby stood a figure draped in black.

"What are you doing here?" asked Etwol in surprise.

Grima looked up. "Saruman lost the war with Rohan," he said. "Sauron brought us up here for further instructions. Yes, I know, we started after you left, but we took a shortcut through Morgul Vale. My friend here gave us a ride up on his dragon."

"Oh, hello," said Etwol, recognising the dark figure. "Nice to see you again."

"Sorry, I don't think we've met," said the figure in black.

"You came to Isengard last autumn," said Etwol, feeling awkward.

"You're probably confusing me with some other nazgul," said the figure. He turned back to Grima and continued some conversation they had been having when Etwol came in.

"I told you you need some better pick up lines. A girl doesn't want to be told she's cold—she wants to be told she's hot. Well, so what happened then? Did she slap you?"

"No, but her uncle threw me out."

"Ha! Ha!" The nazgul seemed to think this very funny. "Ha! I'm afraid you're a little out of it. Next time you need dating advice, come to me."

Since there didn't seem to be anything else to do, Etwol sat down to wait. Soon a door at one end of the room with a red eye painted on it opened and Saruman came out. Behind him came another figure—one wearing black robes and a helmet that obscured all of his face except for his mouth and chin. Etwol stared at him in delighted admiration. Never before had he seen such beautiful scars as those this person wore, radiating from his mouth in stylised lightning bolts.

Saruman seemed to be in a bad mood and rather more harassed than Etwol remembered him looking a few days previously. His voice was raised in complaint.

"Don't tell _me_ Barad-dur is more impregnable than Orthanc. You need to get your lift fixed, for one thing—it's too slow."

"It's not broken, it's just safer than yours," said his scarred companion. "Barad-dur has all the safety features." It was common knowledge that Saruman never bothered with safety features.

"Come on, goon," said Saruman to Grima.

"Where are we going?" asked Grima, getting up obediently.

Saruman was already in the lift, pushing buttons. "To the Shire," he said, as Grima joined him and the doors closed.

The tall person in the helmet turned his attention to Etwol. Etwol expected to be told to do something, but the person only looked him up and down with a malicious smirk.

"Are you Sauron?" asked Etwol finally.

"I'm his mouth."

Etwol was slightly confused as to whether the mouth was speaking for itself or for the whole of this remarkable person.

"You're the orc that used to be an elf, aren't you?" said the Mouth of Sauron. "I like elves. They're fun."

"I'm no elf."

"You might be interesting anyway. Have you ever seen an elf die? They sort of—burn out…from the inside."

"I hate elves," said Etwol.

"Well, they are pretty annoying," said the Mouth. "What I like about elves is that they can handle a lot of pain. I'm an expert on pain and torture, you know. I'm writing a book about it—it's called _The Ten Levels of Pain_. Speaking of which, do you wanna know how I got these scars?"

"I'm an expert on torture, too," said Etwol, unimpressed. "Only I been on the receiving end, so I got the advantage of you there."

"Oh, that's right," said the Mouth. "You were tortured into an orc, weren't you? That ought to be good material for my book. Maybe we should collaborate on a chapter. Here, I've got something to show you that you'll like. Come on."

Etwol followed him through a door—a different door than the one the Mouth and Saruman had come out of—into a dark room. The Mouth lit a torch and began to show Etwol around. The room was full of instruments of torture—similar to many Etwol was familiar with but much more sophisticated. He had to admit that they were pretty impressive.

"You and I should bring up a couple of prisoners some time and have some fun together," said the Mouth. "The other orcs don't really know how to do it right."

There was a sudden buzzing sound and an intercom at one end of the room began to crackle.

"Where are you?" said a voice over it. "I thought I told you to bring in the subject."

"I'm in the torture chamber," said the Mouth. "I was giving him a little preliminary psychological orientation."

"Stop wasting time and get in here," said Sauron.

"It's not a waste of time," grumbled the Mouth, going to the door. "You've got to have some time for goofing off."

Etwol followed him out and through the other door in the room—the one marked with a red eye. They climbed a short stair and emerged onto a wide, round, flat roof, at either end of which tall spikes shot up towards the murky sky. Suspended between them hung the Great Eye, still glancing restlessly about its demesne. When it saw Etwol, however, it turned the whole strength of its formidable gaze upon him. Etwol began to tremble.

"So," hissed Sauron. "This is the twit who didn't know a thing about Mirkwood and yet was able to travel by the secret elven paths and elude an elven orc-hunting party. How was that, _worm_?"

"You can smell the elves coming," said Etwol smugly. "They put product in their hair."

"Don't tell _me_ about elves. I know their tricks. You may have fooled Saruman, but don't try the same with me, Ëol."

"Etwol."

"You knew how to find the hidden paths all along, didn't you?" went on Sauron, ignoring the correction. "Perhaps there is more you can tell of Mirkwood and the Wood-elves."

"I don't know nuffing. It just came to me, like."

"And the pass code? That just came to you as well, I suppose?"

"I don't know," said Etwol. "The numbers were sort of in my fingers, if you follow."

"You're telling the truth," said Sauron after a pause. "Perhaps it's time you knew the whole truth. Look at me!"

Etwol looked at the Eye. It was a huge ball of fire with a long black slit down the centre and this slit, as Etwol gazed at it, took the shape of a dark lord with a spiky crown.

"You are a creature of shadow," said Sauron. "You shun light. But light is only the illusion, the fleeting gleam. Behind light lies darkness, the reality. The light will pass, the darkness is eternal. They thought they defeated him; they shut him out. But beyond the edge of the world he lingers, awaiting his hour. The world will fall, plunged in eternal ruin, and he will remain, the darkness beyond the world, the darkness that cannot be destroyed."

Etwol looked at the slit and it seemed no longer a dark lord but a bottomless well of ultimate nothingness. It seemed to suck him into itself like a vacuum, as if it desired to swallow up all things in its own despair. Etwol gazed into it, and suddenly he remembered everything—Horthir, Halrodil, the elvenking, the war.

"You hate the light," said Sauron. "You hate it and fear it. _But you still fear the darkness._ Know then what you fear. The darkness outside the world."

Etwol lurched forward and staggered.

"Rah!" said the Eye.

With a shriek and a clatter of orc armour, Etwol fell to the flagstones of the tower.

* * *

* In case you are wondering why it wasn't blinking from the proximity of elven zombies and vampires, detectors don't detect dead things. See The Hobbit: an Unexpected Journey, the riddles scene.


	17. The Spy

**Note: Thanks for the review, OneSizeFitsAll! Here's another chapter on Mordor. (I love Mordor! It's my favourite part in both the LOTR book and the movie.)**

* * *

**Incunabulum 17: The Spy**

Etwol dragged himself slowly from the depths of some unnatural coma. Apparently he had not been unconscious long, because he could hear the Mouth and the Eye still talking above his head.

"I sent for them at the same time I sent for the elf-orc, but they don't travel very fast. They should be here soon." This was the Mouth speaking.

Etwol moved and groaned.

"He's coming round too soon. Shall I stick him with something?" said the Mouth.

"No," Sauron replied. "I don't care if he hears what we say, and elves are resistant to mind-affecting drugs anyway. I want him put with Gothmog's army and sent to Osgiliath. Give Gothmog orders to send him back with a full report when they've finished there."

"I thought you wanted to send him to Mirkwood."

"He isn't ready. He's too soft. Did you see the rest of the group he brought with him?"

"Well," said the Mouth, "on a scale from one to ten with one being slightly injured and ten being completely dismembered, I'd rank them about two."

"He didn't do that to them, either. The uruk did. He didn't even carry a whip."

"He killed the uruk, anyway."

"I know. Elves can be crueler than orcs. I think I've straightened him out, but I'm still not sure. Osgiliath ought to be a safe testing ground."

"Hello?" said the Mouth as the intercom buzzed. "Oh, the vampires are here, my lord."

"Good. Show them in," said Sauron.

The Mouth went to the door of the tower and opened it. He came back followed by a bevy of tired-looking vampires. They lined up before the Great Eye in orderly fashion.

"You no longer serve the White Wizard," said the Eye. "You serve—"

"Yeah, we know," interrupted a vampire. "We washed off the white hands. We're gonna get our friend to tattoo red eyes on our faces."

"Oh," said Sauron. "What a good—"

"We made up a new chant, just for you," the vampire went on. "You ready, guys?"

The vampires began to chant in unison.

"S-A-U; R-O-N; Sauron, Sauron, Sau—ron! Rah!"

It was rather embarrassing because, despite its stupidity, some of the vampires really got into it. The Eye turned red.

"Em, very nice…thank you," he said. "I guess."

"We don't really like Saruman anymore," said a vampire. "He's not as cool as you. We decided to be your new fan club."

Sauron had never had a fan club before, but he was not excited at the idea all the same. He wanted to be the Dark Lord, not the Dark Popular Icon. He tried a few mesmerising techniques, but the vampires were about as receptive to psychic impression as Mount Doom.

"All right, get rid of them," said the Eye to the Mouth. "I have other things to bother about. I'll take care of them later."

"Can you sign this?" asked a vampire, proffering an autograph album.

"Rah!" said the Eye. It usually worked, but in this case it took some pushing and shoving by the Mouth as well to get the vampires back down the stairs and into the lift. Etwol was expelled along with them.

They reached the bottom and exited the tower. Outside the door stood the ugly uruk who had met them at the processing station. Apparently he had brought up the vampires.

"Here, Borg," said the Mouth, "take them to Camp 14. And here's the dossier on the skinny one." He handed Borg a paper and dismissed them with a wave of the hand.

They set out running back along the crowded highway, Borg in the back, trying to hurry the vampires. Etwol ran without looking where he was going, his mind consumed with the recent revelation of his past. He _had_ been an elf—how odd. His memories were painful as he had always known they would be, but now the pain did not seem to matter. A strange new sensation had been growing inside him ever since he had awakened on the cold roof of the tower. It was a burning feeling and it was growing steadily fiercer.

He heard vaguely Borg's voice behind him.

"What's this? Eh? What?"

He looked back and saw that Borg was reading the dossier as he ran and looking disgruntled.

"Eye's orders, eh? We'll see!" Borg muttered.

They were passing the military bases now—huge and sprawling complexes, each covering multiple acres and built to hold a battalion comfortably (as comfortably as one can get in Mordor) or a division snugly. They stopped before the fourteenth camp and passed in through a gate above which hung a sign reading "Pain Is Weakness Leaving the Body."

Just inside the gate a general inspection seemed to be taking place. The soldiers were lined up and an orc even uglier than Borg was looking them over. His face looked like one of the flabby fungal growths that sprout up on damp logs after a lot of rain. Etwol guessed by descriptions he had heard that this was the famous Morgul lieutenant, Gothmog. Borg marched up to him and handed him Etwol's dossier.

"What? Some more of 'em? Oh, those are the special crew. Not to be used right away, eh? What's this?"

Gothmog turned his attention to the paper in his hand and looked it over. "What's special about him, eh?" he asked.

"Nothing as I know," grumbled Borg. "It says he's set down to be guide to my battalion on the Mirkwood offensive. Not so much as an if you please or by your leave. I don't need a guide, and I told the Eye as much."

"If he gives satisfaction," said Gothmog, reading from the paper. "Well, we know what kind of satisfaction they're looking for, don't we? I'll have to find a few injured humans for him to stab. I don't think he'll be too much bother."

"Not for you, maybe. _I_ don't want him. He'll only be in the way, and anyway, it's my battalion and I'm not going to be bossed by a mere Isengard rat."

Etwol snarled at this, but Gothmog knocked him over. "Get in the line-up, you," he said. "And as for you," he said, turning to Borg, "you'll do as you're told. You don't like him, you can have him in your battalion right now. That'll give you two a chance to learn how to get along."

Gothmog gave them both a sadistic grin and marched off with his retinue. Borg watched him go and then turned a malevolent gaze on Etwol.

"You dirty little tripe," he said. "I'll soon show you who's boss around here."

"Get off," said Etwol sulkily. "'Tisn't my fault the Eye put me down as guide for you, and I already killed an uruk, so don't try anyfing."

"Guides aren't so scarce," said Borg. "Just remember that if I find you a nuisance, I can make things happen that you won't like." But as he said it, a deep-toned bell sounded for dinner and the entire battalion deserted him and charged towards the mess hall.

By the time Etwol joined the dinner queue it was already wrapped around the building twice. Etwol waited hungrily, although he could tell from the smell of the food that it was not going to be good. He eventually reached a table where a black-robed figure was ladling soup into bowls. It nearly dropped the ladle into the soup pot when it saw Etwol.

"Oh, hello again," it said.

"You, is it?" said Etwol. "The ninth ring bearer?"

"Hush," said the nazgul. "Not the ninth, the seventh."

"I just met another of you up at the big tower," said Etwol. "I fought he was you at first and said hello."

"Gracious, that must have been the Witch King himself!" said the nazgul. "I hope he isn't angry with you now. He hates being confused with one of us. He's getting a special helmet to differentiate him from us, but it isn't finished yet."

The orcs behind Etwol began to push and complain in loud voices.

"Sorry, must move on," said the nazgul. "I'll come join you when I've finished here and we can catch up then."

Etwol took his soup and went to a long table, squeezing into a seat in a corner. After about half an hour the nazgul showed up with his own bowl of soup and sat down beside him.

"So you were up at Barad-dur?" he said. "Did you get to see the Eye? Was he wearing the ring?"

"What ring?"

"Oh, well, actually he has a lot of rings," said the nazgul. "But he likes to wear the nine—one for each finger because one of his fingers got chopped off. One of the nine rings used to be mine. I'd dearly like to see it again."

The nazgul gazed into the distance wistfully and for a moment seemed even thinner and more shadowy than before.

"So why are you here?" asked Etwol, deciding to change the subject. "I fought you were going to the Shire."

"I did. But it was a wild goose chase. The hobbit we were following got away and all our horses got drowned in the river. It was kind of sad, but I have a much cooler ride now—it's a dragon."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"It's punishment," said the nazgul. "I wasn't supposed to tell anyone I was looking for the Shire—least of all Saruman. The Great Eye has made me do kitchen duty at this beastly camp for the whole winter. But I hope I'll be able to fight again in the big battle that's coming up."

Etwol hoped he would be able to fight, too. The hypnosis session with Sauron had made him want to kill things more than ever.

* * *

Two days later Borg's battalion joined the heavy traffic on the road to the Morgul Vale with Etwol in its ranks. They had reached the spooky valley and gone a fair distance down it when they came up against the tail end of another regiment and had to stand and wait until the gate of Minas Morgul was opened before they could go any further. This couldn't happen until the Witch King arrived.

Some of the orcs began to amuse themselves as they waited by painting graffiti on nearby rocks. It was popular in Mordor at this time to paint graffiti, and every bare wall was speckled with artwork. There had been a temporary infatuation with painting NO SMOKING notices on Mount Doom and one ambitious and impertinent orc (nobody knew who) had even painted EYE SEE YOU on one of the spikes of Barad-dur. The Great Eye had been very angry and had for a time cracked down on vandalism, but he had grown too busy to enforce the veto of late.

They had been waiting (and spray-painting) for nearly half an hour when there was a sudden commotion at the far end of the valley and an uruk came pushing its way through the ranks, followed by a cave troll. They were heading back up the valley towards Mordor. On its back the cave troll carried something wrapped in so many chains that nothing of it could be clearly seen.

"Move out of the way, you vermin," said the uruk, striking to left and right with his whip. "Make way there."

"What's going on?" asked various orcs, glad of a diversion to the tedium.

"Caught a spy," volunteered some others, who had been close enough to ask the cave troll. "Taking him up to the Great Eye."

The orcs turned to look after the two spy-catchers, who were already nearly out of sight. Something white fluttered along the ground like a wounded moth and blew up against Etwol's foot. He bent and picked it up. It was a sheet of music.

For a moment he stared at it. Then he turned and looked back to where waving swords and loud curses showed how far the uruk and cave troll duo had gotten. He looked again at the paper in his hand, then crumpled it up and pushed his way to the edge of the file. Borg noticed and began to shout at him.

"Here, get back here, aphid. Where the ghash do you fink you're going? Get back in the ranks or I'll report you."

Borg had been particularly disagreeable of late and Etwol ignored him, pushing his way up the road as fast as he could. Borg, swearing blackly, made a move to follow, but at that moment a blue light shot up from Minas Morgul and the troops began to move. Etwol went even faster, the shouts of Borg growing fainter behind him.


	18. Torture

**Note: Thanks for the reviews! Sorry, events in this chapter do not actually include torture, except for some mental trauma.**

* * *

**Incunabulum 18: Torture**

The armies in the valley were moving out, and Etwol had to fight against traffic to get back to Mordor. About four miles in, the road he was on crossed the main Mordor road running north to the Black Gate and Etwol had to stop at a red light that lasted nearly half an hour while a long line of Haradrim and elephants went by. He got through at last and ran on down the twisted, rutted road. Ahead loomed the dark tower of Barad-dur.

He arrived at the door out of breath and rang the bell hurriedly. The door swung open on its automatic hinges and Etwol entered, stopping before the orc behind the desk. The orc was looking at his clipboard.

"Message?" he said.

"I want to go up," said Etwol.

"I don't see you on the schedule. Can't see the Great Eye without an appointment."

Etwol cudgelled his brains for a suitable excuse. "The Mouth told me to come up sometime."

The orc flipped a page on his clipboard and, glancing down the columns, found an entry in the Mouth's neat handwriting:

Etwol – orc – unlimited access

"Ah, yes," he said. "You're all right, then."

Etwol got into the lift and pushed the button for the top storey.

The waiting room at the top was deserted. Etwol went quietly to the torture chamber and poked his head in, but all was dark and silent within. He opened the door to the roof and stepped through, but he did not go up the steps. He could hear the Eye and the Mouth talking up above.

"Come on, why not?" said the Mouth. "You never do anything fun anymore. You're getting too stressed out."

"It's a waste of time," said the Eye. "I have more important things to do. You do, too. Just give him to Shelob."

"What? Waste a perfectly good elf? And I already put him through psychological conditioning. I could bring him up here, if you want, and then you wouldn't even have to go down."

"Read my lips," said the Eye. "N-O."

Etwol slipped back through the door and once more entered the torture chamber. The prisoner was not on the roof, so he must be in here somewhere. He felt along the wall for a torch and suddenly heard across the room a scratching, scrabbling sound and a faint grunt.

Holding his glowing hammer warily, Etwol crossed the room. To a low table against one wall was strapped an emaciated elf. Somehow he had gotten one arm free and was tugging weakly at the straps that held down the other. His nail broke and he dropped his hand over the edge and onto the floor with a muffled groan.

"Valar," he cursed.

Etwol held up his hammer to get a better look at the elf's face. The elf, suddenly aware of him, shrank away.

"Back, filth!" he cried. "Get away, you foul creatures! I tell you I don't know anything."

It was Elvisir, but Etwol was only sure because he recognised the voice. Sixty years had not made as much of a change in the elf as the last six hours. He was bleeding freely from multitudinous surface wounds and his eyes were glassy with pain. His hair was still immaculate, but elves' hair somehow never seemed to get tangled or dirty no matter what happened to them.

Meeting his old friend gave Etwol a queer feeling. Not that he still considered Elvisir his friend—Etwol could not even think of elves and friends in the same train of thought—but seeing an elf again suddenly brought back even more sharply his own elven past. He felt not the slightest spark of pity for the hapless elf. He had come all that way simply to find out if it _was_ Elvisir, but now his curiosity ran most strongly along the channel of discovering what it would be like to torture him.

There was just one thing bothering Etwol as he stared at Elvisir. Elvisir had once set him free from a cage and Etwol owed him a debt. Owing and paying debts was one of the few moral obligations that orcs understood, although generally it was the sort of debt where somebody knocked you on the head so you owed him a knock back. This was different—but not really very different.

Etwol reached down and unfastened the strap that Elvisir had again begun to pluck agitatedly.

"I ain't going to hurt you," he said. "Get up!"

Elvisir got slowly and painfully to his feet. "Where's the other one—the one with the mouth? He's not here, is he?"

"He'll be back," said Etwol. "You might want to get away before then."

"Get away..." repeated Elvisir. "Right. But oh, Elbereth." He reeled and toppled to the floor. Etwol reached down and jerked him upright.

"Sorry," said Elvisir. "My legs feel funny. I feel awful, in fact. That jolly with the helmet—oh, my belly…and my head, too. Horrible. That fiend with the ugly scars—he was seriously messed up…criminally insane. Ow."

It was obvious that Elvisir was not going to get far. And there was still the orc at the desk to get past. Etwol considered and hatched a hasty plan of escape.

"Here," he said, picking up a pile of chains from the floor. "You'd better put these back on. Then I can carry you out of the tower."

"Won't I be too heavy for you?" asked Elvisir.

Etwol considered some more and thought that he might. "Then I'll drag you," he said. "But you'll have to put the chains on or someone might see that you're escaping."

With some help from Etwol, Elvisir donned the chains once more and the two of them made their way back to the lift. They sank back to ground level and Etwol stepped out, dragging the pile of chains down the red carpet of the lobby. The orc at the desk didn't give them a second glance. Elvisir could not be seen at all through the chains.

Once outside the tower, Etwol stopped and took the chains off.

"But how am I going to get out of Mor—" began Elvisir.

Etwol thrust a bottle into his mouth and poured some orc draught down his throat. "Swill that down," he instructed. Elvisir looked as if he was going to be sick, but obeyed.

"That ought to fix you for the moment," said Etwol. "That road there leads to the Black Gate. They open it regularly and you can get out when the next lot of Haradrim come in. You can borrow my armour, so's they won't know you're an elf."

Elvisir put on the eye-stamped armour, shuddering at its touch. "It fits perfectly," he said. "Isn't that fortunate?"

There was a sudden screech as a nazgul passed overhead. Elvisir shuddered again and took off running along the road. He was soon swallowed up in the rest of the traffic.

Etwol had no idea where to go, so he went back to Camp 14. Now that the army had left, the camp was dead and silent. Etwol wondered what would happen to him for letting a prisoner of the Eye go free. The Eye would probably kill him, but this did not bother him as much as it might have bothered someone else. He had never been very afraid of repercussions; perhaps because all his life he had suffered so many of them.

He had thought the camp was completely deserted, but as he wandered past the kitchen, he heard voices and went inside. Nazgul #7 was sweeping the floor and talking to Ghashbug, the little tattoo snaga, who sat on a barrel in the corner smoking a pipeweed cigarette.

"Hello, you're back," said Ghashbug. "I fought everyone had left. I got here too late to go with the army."

"How was the family?" asked Etwol.

"Oh, not so good. Since my last visit I've lost free brothers, a sister, two uncles, a granddad, and fourteen cousins of various degrees and removals."

Etwol expressed sympathy.

"Every time I come back it's like that," said Ghashbug. "I'll be glad when the war is over and we can do what we want instead of what we're told all the time. When the war's over, I'm going to open my own tattoo parlour. What about you?"

"Eat a big pizza," said Etwol. "Remember the pizza at Isengard?"

"Yes, garn, that was good. After Middle Earth is won, let's go to Isengard and order a lot of pizza together. You like pizza?" he asked, looking at the nazgul.

"Yes," said the nazgul.

"Then you can come, too."

"You won't have a job any more after the war, will you?" asked Etwol, sitting down on a table. "What will you do?"

"I don't know," said the nazgul. "I'll stay here with the Dark Lord, I suppose."

"Why?"

"He has the rings."

"Well, why does that mean you have to stay here with him?" asked Ghashbug.

"I want my ring back!" said the nazgul, dropping the broom and clutching at his hood. "He wears it all the time and I can't stand to see him with it. It's mine! He gave it to me for my own. It's not fair!"

He seemed so genuinely distressed that the orcs tried to console him, but it was useless.

"Then when the war's over, we'll help you steal your ring back," said Etwol.

Ghashbug looked rather uncertain because he was an honester orc than Etwol, but the nazgul seemed comforted.

* * *

"I don't believe a word that Borg says," said Sauron impatiently. "He's been on my case about the Mirkwood guide ever since I assigned it to his force. The orcs are always fighting with each other over questions of seniority, and I don't mean to encourage it by giving in to them."

"He says he has proof," said the Mouth.

"I've no time to look into the matter," said Sauron. "Relegate it to the Witch King."

An orc runner found Etwol wandering about watching the traffic go by on the road and formally escorted him to Barad-dur.

"If I were you," he said, "I'd be thinking up an alibi. The Eye's not happy by all accounts."

Etwol followed him in a brown study. He thought the Eye was probably mad at him for letting Elivisir go, but he didn't think there was a good excuse he could give for his action, so he didn't bother too much trying to think of one.

At the moment he was undergoing suicidal depression brought on by having met an elf and not killed it. Being suicidal was new for an orc. Orcs did not fear death—their life was so unpleasant already that death was simply another nasty moment—but they were always ready to live as long as conveniently possible. Even elves never committed suicide. They would sometimes do crazy things that led to their deaths, but the act of taking their own lives was foreign to them.

The only creatures in Middle Earth who ever committed suicide were men, who actively incinerated themselves or flung themselves over precipices for no more apparent reason than the pure devilry of the thing. Etwol could not claim to be quite that deranged, but he was beginning to wonder exactly what suicide felt like and if it might not be rather fun.

At Barad-dur he met the Mouth standing outside the door.

"The Witch King will be along soon," said the Mouth. "Then we can get started."

Etwol saw Borg sitting on a bench by the base of the tower and sat down to wait himself.

"Things don't look very good for you, my friend," said the Mouth, smirking. "I still think you'll be a lot of fun to torture, though. I had a new machine to try out on the last prisoner that escaped, and I think I'll try it on you."

"Do you ever feel like killing yourself?" asked Etwol.

"Why would I want to do that?" asked the Mouth, taken back.

"They say deaf was a gift to men from Iluvatar."

"That's silly."

Just then the Witch King arrived on his dragon and took the chair.

"All right, speak your piece, orc," he said.

Etwol opened his mouth but Borg stepped forward and spoke first.

"I been suspicious of this one from the first," he said, pointing unnecessarily at Etwol. "You can't trust anyfing they send you out of Isengard these days. All wizard's work, is what they are."

"Not me," said Etwol.

"Silence," said the Witch King.

"That's what you are, and I'll prove it," said Borg. "An elf dressed up like an orc to infiltrate us."

"Maybe I stepped out of the ranks," said Etwol. "But I was coming right back. I couldn't help it you left wivout me."

"Desertion is the least of your charges," said Borg. "What about the attack in Ifilien?"

"What attack?" said Etwol.

"Rangers wiped out a whole troop of Haradrim. They had inside information, or they wouldn't have known they were coming. And—" Borg paused dramatically, "_you_ gave it to them."

"No, I didn't," said Etwol.

"No? What about that spy you set loose yesterday?"

"I didn't—" Etwol began, but the Mouth cut him short by holding up a crumpled sheet of music smudged with yellow fingerprints (Etwol had been painting graffiti, too).

"Found this in the tower," he said.

"That spy was helping the rangers," said Borg. "And you knew him. You was friends with him."

"I'm no friend of his," said Etwol.

"Never seen one of these before, have you?" said Borg, taking something from his pocket and holding it up. It was one of Elvisir's good luck charms.

Etwol forgot to deny it. He simply stared in confusion at the charm. The last one he had seen had been the reason why he was an orc at all. There was a long silence and Etwol felt the Eye on the tower trained suspiciously on him.

"One more thing," said Borg. "A snaga said you were captured by rangers on the way here and made to talk. And you killed the uruk in charge so that he wouldn't tell anybody what you'd told them."

"Well, let's hear your defence, if you've got one," said the Witch King.

Etwol opened his mouth and said nothing. There was nothing at all to say. Besides, he felt the Eye boring into him and reading everything inside him. He wasn't even sure any more whether or not he was guilty.

"Come on," said the Witch King. "Or else I'll say you're guilty. But I'm going to say so anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter. We can dispense with the formalities, then. You'll have to find another Mirkwood guide, my lord." He shouted this last sentence up to the top of the tower.

Etwol was not listening. Now it seemed almost as if the Eye itself was inside him, and the burning inside had grown too dreadful to bear. He squeezed his eyes closed to shut out the terrible, probing Eye, but it was no use. He shrieked orcishly and ran down the road towards the mountains.

"Get a troop of runners after him," said the Witch King. "He'd better not escape."

"He won't," said the Eye.


	19. Not the Best Exit

**Note: ...Because no Middle Earth fic is complete without a giant spider!**

* * *

**Incunabulum 19: Not the Best Exit**

Etwol ran a red light, nearly got knocked down by a mumakil, and scampered on while the group of uruks chasing him shouted and cursed, help up by the impeding traffic. He could see up ahead and growing steadily closer the dark slopes of the Ephal Duath.

Mordor was truly a trap from which there were only a few exits. Etwol had no hopes of escaping through the Black Gate, and the Morgul Vale was guarded by the Witch King's city. He was making for the pass of Cirith Ungol, because it was a little-used route and Etwol hoped that the guards there would not yet have gotten the order not to let a runaway orc through.

Etwol was a fast runner—faster than most orcs. He had left his pursuers far behind by the time he passed the tower of Cirith Ungol guarding the dark chasm which ran through the mountains. At the mouth of the chasm was a toll booth and barrier manned by a sleepy-looking orc.

"Where's your pass?" he asked Etwol. "All orcs leaving Mordor must show their pass."

"I ain't got one," said Etwol. "I'm carrying a message to—to…Osgiliaf. Yeh. So let me frew as it's important."

"I'm not supposed to let anyone frew wivout a pass," said the orc. "Let me ask them up at the tower and see what they say."

He was several minutes on the telephone and Etwol waited impatiently, knowing his pursuers would soon show up.

"All right," said the orc, hanging up the telephone. "They say to go up to the tower and they'll see about getting you a pass. It might take awhile, though, because they'll have to send a call frew to Barad-dur."

Etwol retraced his steps to the dark tower of Cirith Ungol. Now that he was actually in mortal danger all his suicidal urges had evaporated and he wanted very much to live for a while yet—and now it was looking very much like he was not going to do so. He had very little hope left, but orcs never give up before they have to. He passed through the gate and pummelled a small orc until he told him where the captain in charge was.

As Etwol climbed the stairs to an upper room he heard angry voices above, engaged in a fierce conversation.

"All I know is that he's got to be found and that it's your look-out."

"And I tell you I could take fifty orcs down there and still never find him. It's too dark and we'd all get eaten."

"What if it's dark? Who cares about the dark?"

"Nobody, but if you've got to find somefing, it helps to have more than your nose and fingertips to go by. Especially down _there_ where you could find a dozen orcs strung up and not one the one you're looking for."

"Well, it's your job, isn't it?"

"That's what I don't like about it. They always give us the nasty jobs—as if watching the pass weren't bad enough. We lose enough of our people on ordinary duty wivout these extra assignments on top of it. Why don't they send up some orcs from the plain to do it, if the message is so important as all that?"

"Shut up, slug, and obey orders. Or I'll report you."

Etwol had by now reached the room and saw the speakers—two uruks, one of which appeared to be the captain of the tower. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, thinking perhaps they were speaking about him, but on catching sight of him the uruk captain sprang forward and dragged him into the room by one ear.

"Where'd you come from?" said the captain. "What are you doing here? Oh, you're the one what wanted a pass, weren't you? I've no time for that. The message will have to wait."

"It can't," gasped Etwol, trying to pull his ear from the uruk's grasp. "It's terribly important."

"Too bad," said the captain. "Want to know what happened to the last chap to try bringing a message frew the pass? He's dangling down in Shelob's lair somewhere. You wouldn't get frew either. Try the Morgul Vale."

"Wait," said the other uruk. "Why not send him down?"

"What good would that do?" said the captain. "He can't do anyfing on his own."

"He might be able to find him, and if he gets eaten, it won't matter."

"Yes, it will. His message won't get frew, maggot!"

"I mean it won't matter _to us_."

The two uruks looked Etwol over slowly.

"You want to go down in Shelob's lair and rescue a runner, shrimp?" asked the captain.

Etwol rather didn't, but he had just glimpsed through the window a bevy of orcs arrive at the tollbooth and start questioning the orc manning it.

"Yes," he said. "I can find him for you, all right."

"And no funny business, now," said the captain. "Or you'll wish you'd never been born. We'll go wiv you down to the mouf of her lair."

* * *

They had descended to the basement of the tower and through a large brass gate leading to subterranean passages, and now, at the end of one of these passages, they had reached a low barrier. Beyond it lay the labyrinthine underground tunnels haunted by the giant spider. Etwol stared into the blackness and grasped his hammer more tightly. It was glowing, but this darkness was of the sort that no light could get through easily.

"Well, get a move on," said the captain, giving him a shove.

Etwol stepped forward and felt his way down the passage. As an elf he would have been completely disgusted, but being an orc the nasty strands of spider silk and blobby forms of little creatures caught therein did not faze him much. He carried his orc sword and a knife and his glowing hammer, but he had given his armour to Elvisir. That had helped him when it came to running, but he was wishing he had it back now.

He had gone maybe twenty yards down the passage when he stopped and looked back towards the dim spot of light where the two uruks stood waiting with a lantern. He was not fond of these particular uruks but he wanted company.

"Hey," he said. "Ain't you coming to make sure I don't try to escape?"

"You won't escape out that way," said the captain.

There was a scuffling sound farther down the passage and the two uruks turned and fled precipitately. For an instant Etwol meditated following them, but then he remembered that the Eye was looking for him up there. At least down here it couldn't see him.

He could hear the scuffling growing closer and thought for a moment that he would have no choice but to go back the way he had come, but moving to the side of the passage he found a small opening and squeezed himself through.

He was in another low passage and the scuffling sounds on the farther side of the rock wall had stopped as if in perplexity. Etwol turned and scrambled down the dark tunnel and then up another and another until he had lost all sense of where he was. At times he thought he could hear the scuffling sounds in pursuit, but he blundered on through the darkness, hoping he was not heading for a dead end where he would be trapped.

"If ever I get out of here," he thought, "I'll never mind the sun again."

At last he stumbled through a nasty web stretched across the tunnel and found himself in what appeared to be Shelob's larder. Long white bundles hung here and there from the ceiling, and one of them was wriggling. Etwol stepped towards it and suddenly felt himself pinched from behind.

He shrieked and kicked backwards. The kick upset his equilibrium and he sprawled on the ground, rolling this way and that as something very large pinched him mercilessly all over. Etwol could see dimly through the murkiness the large jaws, long, hairy legs, and numerous beady eyes of the giant arachnid. In a flash he kicked himself back along the floor, leaped up, and slashed at a dangling bundle.

He had hoped to cut it down on the head of Shelob, rendering her unconscious, but his sword stuck in the silk and sprang back at him, knocking him over. He hit his head on the floor and lay stunned and half-unconscious for a moment. Shelob gave him one last disgusted pinch and scuttered backwards, apparently thinking him too skinny to be worth her while. She went over and took down the moving bundle, prodding it with her forelegs.

The bundle emitted a squeak. Etwol got painfully up and retrieved his sword from the spider silk. Then, brandishing it over his head, he leaped forward with an orc cry.

The sword was still stuck by a long, sticky strand, and as Etwol lunged forward it caught in several more. For a fraction of a minute Etwol dangled from the ceiling, bobbing up and down and kicking. Then with a loud crash and a cloud of choking dust a large portion of the ceiling tumbled down.

Etwol picked himself out of the rubble and looked around. The light from his hammer caught the dust particles still floating in the air and made a luminous blue cloud around him. In one corner Shelob sat huddled up slightly and half stunned from a very large rock that had fallen on her head. She had dropped the bundle and it was kicking. It gave another squeal.

Etwol seized hold of the bundle and dragged it out into the tunnel, but once there he was too tired to do anything more than saw half-heartedly at the spider silk.

"Get on wiv it, maggot; I'm stifling," came a voice from inside the cocoon.

Etwol redoubled his efforts, but found that he was not able to make much headway with his dull orc sword. He longed very much for one of the beautiful blades he had forged for Saruman's army.

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying," he said, as the bundle kicked him. He dropped his sword and resorted to his teeth and fingernails. At last he got the strands parted enough to let the small orc runner out.

"Fanks, mate," said the orc, crawling painfully from the sticky silk. "Gore, 'ere she comes."

A very large spider-shaped form emerged from the hole behind them. With twin shrieks, both orcs flew down the passage, tripping over spider silk and flailing their arms wildly to fend off stringy webs. At last they found a narrow opening and squeezed through, leaving Shelob on the other side. She could not fit through the hole and she did not really like orcs anyway. They didn't taste very good.

Etwol and the runner stood panting side by side for several moments, trying to get their pulses back to normal.

"You're a good 'and at fighting spiders," said the runner. "Where'd you learn?"

"I don't remember," said Etwol. "Anyway, how do I get out of here?"

"Where are you headed? For the tower or the secret stair?"

"Secret stair. I'm leaving Mordor."

"Then take the first tunnel on your right. It'll lead you right out. Cheers!" And the orc scampered off, as if it hadn't been stuck by Shelob only a half hour before.

Etwol turned down the passage the orc had told him of. It led on and on until he was sure he was lost again, but at last it began to slope gently downwards and then he saw a faint light up ahead.


End file.
